MATTERS

THE FADING

There it is clear as moonlit nights

a heart exposed for what it is

small organ opened and stepped on

then thrown away

after this fading,

they write poems about it

or an entry in some worn out diary 

left in a desk so a young boy or girl

might discover it years later,

then they ask why is love so volatile

why so many stains from tears on each page?

‘We don’t understand’ they whisper

the diary is closed softly,

the boy or girl walks out to a sunny afternoon

skipping to play or holding a book like a friend

forgetting the ways of people and their loves

and their heartbreaks that end hidden in an old oak desk

dusty, forgotten, unmoving.