‘I hasten to laugh at everything, for fear of having to weep…’

- Beaumarchais’ Figaro

Chalk

Each time that I hold the dice, The numbers fade, And leave their marks in my hands, Where the chalk and dust remain. But lines can be read like notes, She said I’d leave for Spain. She couldn’t know that city’s light From the marble she gave me.

Some would ask for more, Fooled in the silence. Cast the stone down And doubt what they saw, Just to follow the siren. As she moved on, and Passed through the crowd, She carried our hearts out. It’s true that some words are lost, Because you chose not to hear them.

The hour of two years had marked New lines on her face, But passed me by in the dark, My hands hadn’t changed. With a crayon and pen from a can, She drew a map of Spain. I still have it now, with a letter white But the markings have faded.

 Some would ask for more, Fooled in the silence. Cast the stone down And doubt what they saw, Just to follow the siren. As she moved on, and Passed through the crowd, She carried our hearts out. It’s true that some words are lost, Because you chose not to hear them.