Hourglass

"I have to go", you say,
and a trickle of sand

falls from the ceiling,
a soft snake slithering

its way across the floor.
By the time you leave

your footsteps are muffled
and make no sound -

a silence of heartbeats
and dust winnowed light.

Your feet sink a little
as you walk toward the door.

Afterwards, I lock the windows,
gather fistfuls of touch

to let slip through my hands.
Sheets of sand silt over

the shape of our love-making
and the dust rises

seeking breath like a mirage.
Soon the room shall be filled,

buried, the desert
of your going contained

within four walls;
only my eyes shall remain,

awake but unseeing,
like shells left over

from a long-ago sea.