the cottage door will creak
as we walk back through the forest.
Your hair smells of roses
and notes play in our ears,
hand in hand, beneath the cloudy sky,
beneath the shining stars.
And the leaves had fallen beneath our feet.
Right by the fire,
your hands began to shake
as we settled accounts.
Words were missing from our voices,
lines of red and black stained our memories,
safe and sound, covered in blankets,
a roof over our heads.
And some tears had fallen beneath our feet.
Over the sand
they traced their hieroglyphs
trudging, rolling, tossed by an errant wave.
Silence filled their movements,
silence over their final rest,
over and done, draped in salt water,
oblivion for their names.
And children had fallen beneath our feet.
there is another concert
for us to watch and listen.
Dress up! I'll wear perfume,
and we will sit together,
looking away, drowning in the music
(it's only a metaphor).
And souls will have fallen beneath our feet.
What is your name?
Don't you have a name?
What an oversight!
I'm sure you can have one, if you wish.
What! Mine? I need it.
Ask someone else. Ask those who have so many names.
It wasn't me who forgot.
It is not my fault that you don't have a name.
Thanks to a friend for catching two errors: creek -> creak, and errand -> errant.