Reach out. Let me feel your sorrow.
Hold it in my hand.
Tempt me with your grace and quiet madness
as I browse among your pain.
Mold my pathos with your clay.
Let dawn tend exquisite sadness,
then slip quietly away.
Your footprints sketch a path
on gilded grains of sand, they wed.
Each night they curl
around my pillow,
sweetly singing
to the darkness
sleeping in your bed.
Your dusty portrait blinks at me,
its oily eyes encased
within its musty wooden frame.
It longs to brush the silence.
It aches to hear its name.