Without water one withers, skin
a parchment, last will and testament.
I wrote invitations on a low-tide beach
and wondered why you never arrived.
You walked a long corridor, dusty from
indifference; the custodian swept it clean.
Once I ran uphill, competition in mind,
a Gemsbok my body's mentor.
Once I observed as you practiced
your discipline, an enchanting meditation.
We slowed long enough to catch each
others' breath; shared personal guide books.
A cliff rose above the oceans churning sand
and snook and my heart. We recorded the day.
The photograph fell in love with your
image; I fell in love with your soul.
Choice became a word in some dead language
and the Gemsbok trotted off down the shore.
Camping on the edge of passion
left me breathless, breathless.
I wrote your name in India ink on the inside
of my eyelid, my last solitary testament.