I came upon your writing
On a neatly folded sheet forgotten
Between the pages of a book.
Even spaced squiggles in a script I never learnt.
Your usual exquisitely detailed symmetry;
Measured in thought, as in speech;
With not a line crossed, or an edit smudge
You fill your page with a quiet conviction
Ceding little to doubt. Speak what is known;
Silence the unknown, from voice or sound.
A question mark never more ambiguous
Than its intent: a query and nothing more.
Always; that effortless perfection with restraint.
The moment passed without much complaint.
That you inhabit and pervade time and tract
In your place; amongst your books, your space
Should that compel my lament?
It is only as it has been; as it always will be.
I close my eyes and retract into a togetherness
Into: an as it should be.

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