I’m in possession of a truth–
what truth I cannot say
precisely, but I know
it has to do with you.

You once told me you
understood the iconography
of pain and the typography
of sorrow, and I laughed,
not knowing what you meant.

Those days are like clouds
tattered at the edges,
embroidered with honeyed light.
And you in memory
are like a star
that burned out long ago.

This stanza is too precious,
I hear you say even now.
And yet, is this what you meant?
Is this the truth I see
without understanding?

It hardly matters anymore.
It is hieroglyphics
without the Rosetta Stone,
this gibberish I write
at 2 am because I cannot
sleep and will not
sleep without a key
to understanding
what you understood
all along.