Of monuments and dustdevils

All my life I lived
in the shadows of these monuments –
never some sun of my own.

Dustdevils running my heart
on automatic repeat – each situation
by the same routine.
Oh no, the boy was never there
and I knew naught of it

till one day an empty canister
drifted into my valley of shade
and brought a glint of light,
even though it was but a shell
of a girl.

Of her lines, which at any given time parted and merged
further on,
one broke off to meet mine much
later, down the routines,
and broke a chip of my heart of dust.

Though she also was never alone,
she made words to be shown
on those monuments for me to read.

Blinded, dazzled by this merest glimmer,
my eyes watered the earth,
making life hurt where there was only pain before.

I saw my lines entering hers as well
and we found doorways past these stone statues. Wind
began to hiss, to whisper
of a blue lake under a blue sky.
We both bore the vision back home.

The wind spoke of words misunderstood, misfelt heartily,
dewatering everything, every childhood song and we
never knew we built our parents into
monuments, that henged out sun.

Slowly we painfully crept out of the shadows.
Years later the dustdevils have fallen asleep.
We still hold hands and hearts singing,
in clearer understanding.