Permutations

There are lines, traces unseen
present on your face
when light, the mood of the day
unresolved boundaries blurred
by memories, places and dreams without
names, fade with time
to clarity. I know I’m lost, reeling
within white and red spiralling
tracks of a labyrinth
without exit, the echo
of your words. When will I carry
my own weight? you said. Get a job
or something? Your monotone voice
puts me to sleep, you said, share something
introspective or let me read my book.
The fear of being alone again is
all that keeps us committed.
It could have been consummate
companionate, fatuous, romantic love
or liking—all permutations of commitment
passion, and intimacy. And what we got
is empty love.