Armed with a torch, powered by affection, beam hits upon. In the early days of light, to look over the shoulder of luminosity was indeed a slap on the back for obscurity. That afternoon your door slammed.

Step led step, as the balls of my feet rounded an opposing bend in your nature, an unclassified conscience arranged right before my eyes. Sleepers wake the walk, as I amble through the night in search of dreams that show you in a different, if not darker, light.

By inventing an internal speech that dissolves before reception, a voiceless fidelity, pitched higher than shrill, called for cover. Scribbled under your tracks were day old deliberations, brought to heel by tread.

Understanding chimed and began browsing disappointment for sensation. By cutting my life in half, and not holding onto your share, I wasn’t left with two directions, but a longing that divided sense straight through the ‘n’, leaving se’se to eventually suggest meaning.

But in solving the riddle of sight, your appearance rhymed with a trick question. A latent buzz removed its dust-jacket and indulged in page-turning. A confectioner's scent hit the spot, just as who teased why to the counter.

Tell me again what you will never hear. The years clatter past your words: evergreen embers, lacking flicker. And I, run through with whys, frisk the alphabet irrationally, in search of a stray script, a haven for answers that regardless don't solve feelings.

From there our differences lay, still active. Always close to calling. From a tunnel, echos escape twice. But sayings reverberate, bouncing on the mind’s walls, whilst unsounded actions wrap themselves in reflective rerun. “Tell me again.”

Then long extends to longer. Until now shortens. In fall, vertigo suffers from realisation. Replacing a hand, for the one that let go. She showed me her grip; mine less convinced of palm, tipped touch aside; and you sauntered into yesterday.

Depending where you were your reply varied. Like a triangle sometimes missing a side, it was difficult to sound whole. In the end, silence ground the clock down, leaving a debris of hours. Too late to number or take the shape out of. There are ways of fleshing out what is left, but only for so long.

Or hear enough, or say ‘that is all’. As if conversations ended. When I speak of you to myself, there are no answers. You may cover the same tonal ground with her and yet unobtrusively you repeat nothing. Again is once more. The same declarations exclusively made.

To remember you in tentative bursts, letting a flurry up-end the day. She was tomorrow at the tip of life, so casual yet eloquent, never letting conversation overtake her. And it was in the talk that I had tasted you most, dissected syllables. Analysis belatedly expected some other phenomenon. We can’t sound the same to everyone.