Counting Days

When we count our days,
What will I have left?
The echoing glimmers of tomorrow and the phantoms of hope.

My memory is a museum of fantasies,
Encapsulated in the eyes of lonely boys,
One kind or another,
Too consumed in their loneliness
To be satisfied.

When I close my eyes tonight,
What thought may I rest my mind with
To make my soul content to wake?

You have cut your picture from the frame
of my memory.
Space stares out and identifies the growing void within.
Must not speak
Must not hear.
If I am silent, they say, If I am silent, perhaps they will not find me.

Here.
Still, I write your name upon my heart.
And I wonder, when we count our days,
Will our numbers
Be congruous