REM

The room was filled with the sound of their excitement, their joy. The light stung his eyes, and only the scent of that woman brought him some calm. The exiled old man was afraid. He knew the dust falling from above Would alter the aminergic minds. He had made a grave mistake, And now, he was far from her. He felt like a prisoner, Like someone whose cell had been emptied of oxygen— Or like a delicate flower Feeling the gardener’s shears upon its throat. But they were happy.
He knew the dust alone Would keep him alive— That damned R.E.M. fog, The haze of forgetting.
Here in this ruin, Alongside the intelligent ones, Most of them reeking like brains Left for weeks under the sun, He had to wait, Alone, Far from her.
And worse— He didn’t even know What he was waiting for.
The sun came, The sun went, And the game of seconds slowed.
But for him, The dust did not erase everything— Not at first.
Like them, he went on, A joy tinged with sorrow.
He could not remember his mistake, But the shadow of guilt lingered.
He knew He had left something behind. Something like himself.
Maybe now, He was just a body without a soul. Maybe his spirit was lost, And he did not even know Whether, after the game of seconds, He would ever find it again. More than anything, He thought of her— That which he did not understand, That which he loved deeply.
Did she know How terrible exile truly was?
He had made an appointment With time itself, Waiting at each designated station, At every full turn, For her arrival.
Bearing the crushing weight Of colorless existence, With a love beyond consciousness— Waiting, For forgiveness.