There is one color, one shadow of a person

that talks to me in every sound –

in the howling of the night, through the sprinkles of dust brushing stone—

in every whispering memory of his name

his back…barely grey, like a pencil sketch drawn in a hurry by a forgetful artist

his back—

that's all I can see from him

as he follows me

and I recede back

in an eternal dance

of reliving