Hajis traveling, halted
To whet crows’ feet.
We’d grown too old
Squinting at the sun.
The pilgrimage made
Strangers bedfellows,
And marriages to a cause
If not each other.
But we spoke the same
Inarticulate tongue
That can only be
Transcribed by heartlight,
Illuminated by hands,
Onto the soft vellum,
Leaving indelible ink
On ephemeral skin.
Our love was a dead star,
Over before we knew it.
But it shone through us
Even after. Ever after.