Note for Desdemona

This is a routine lament. Colors are dear, these days.
Yellow flowers wilt
into brown silence;
voices fade,
there is nothing more
to be said.
Someday, all of this might make sense-
these faded days will bear witness, maybe.
But not now.
Where is the place where all silences end?
Maybe, there are ways to be objective about very long ago-
there are no answers in long walks, that one turned out to be a lie.
Last night,
I burnt your last photograph,
and my failures.
This morning they were back in the mirror.
Maybe, then, it is just you and not Me-
listening to the distance, routine tidings coming from a dirty grey ocean,
I can still lay everything on your door.
You are my straw-woman,
my imaginary Desdemona.