For you I've exhausted my quota of tears

There must be a book,
a text or sheaf of notes,
a notepad or a flower
whereupon dreams were inked in
in code or number,
word and pause.
There must be a handkerchief
reserved for unwept tears
neatly embroidered with motif of choice
or chance;
a square piece of cloth,
pale pink or white,
speaking of roads walked and unwalked,
thoughts embraced and shoved aside
suddenly in embarrassment.
But there's nothing to be shy about, darling.
no reason to shout or whisper.
At least that's what the road sign demands.
They want it to be all gone, dearest,
erased by the burgeoning dictates of our tomorrows,
the paraphernalia of the diurnal,
the return to the segmenting of life
into intersections, traffic lights and fears;
brushed aside by the next great explosive sweep
that is the marker of these times.
The gatherer of dream,
the translator of unwritten texts
and impossible poetry:
they've refused contract.
No one dares access the transcripts, love.

But there must be remnant,
we will believe, sweetness.
In stifled sob,
among intangibles that visit memory,
amidst the clamour of a city,
the call for punishment,
and even the call for surrender to tyranny;
in a garden and a fountain
a birdbath and a reservoir,
a heartbeat and thunder
love and its refusal,
you will arrive
as a mountain and a silken thread
a bowtie and a curtain,
a peal of laughter and a silent tear.