She starts slowly,
Her hands, circling gestures, hinting to far off places:
Familiar,
In the way that long gone memories suddenly reappear,
New and old,
As the eyes of a newborn might tell.

Her story moves,
Along the lines of his sweaty brow:
Furrows of dusty habits, streaked and stale.
And his face: a worn vista of hope,
A shell of the dances they once rehearsed.

She conjures over sagging eyes,
Rising to bright skies:
That one window they have left,
Where thirst and promise mingle
On that one day the afternoon light hangs,
Suddenly, still and unmoving.

Their separation: a restless wait,
But marked with patience,
As he turns, fetching verses from a box of years,
Stepping on the one plank, long gone warped and dry,
Creaking, and sounding the first note
Of a long song they will sing once again.