by Nick Gisburne
The statuesque observer told me this:
“I’ll never find a life, a light, like you.”
She staggered, stumbled, falling from a kiss,
And from the burning balcony she flew.
An angel, I am certain. Call me wrong,
But they are not for us to sense, or see,
Unless, somehow, in trying to belong,
They find a crack in time, and hers was me.
My spirit, meant to perish in the flame,
Impossibly, miraculously spared,
Is haunted by a face without a name,
The simple, sweet regret her words declared.
I live, without the chance, without the choice
To listen to the whisper of her voice.
