[Written by Kevin Le Merle]
[Image Credits: Florence Bridgman]
Both came, not to talk,
but to scowl,
The recent past,
hanging heavy,
like a thick fog
on the mind and speech
The things handed over
mechanically, maniacally
and still the silence that hangs heavy.
Hands careful not to touch,
eyes of wrath, that never cross,
eyes of ire, that always watch, without looking.
They came, not to talk,
but to scowl,
and from the depths of saggy jowls,
there came a mutter,
lips that stutter,
Hands that grope
eyes that hope,
But neither broke
the gentle slope,
the path of departure.
With the last objects,
the remnants of the Other,
were handed over.
And with things exchanged,
two sighs united,
And the one whispered to the other,
« Well, that was worse than I would have wanted. »
For the other to reply,
« Come what may, I will stay away. »
