Sisyphus kept trying but how many times
he tried to move the rock up on the hill.
‘I am the man who moved the stone,
I know my goal, my effort may be so in vain
but I am trying for your love,’ you said comparing.
Your time on Earth was penalty and fall;
my times with you are more mundane in café meetings,
in whispers sepia and silence.
All I carry with me from our love
are lies so heavily a burden on my shoulders:
such burdens, atrocities and more, but always
I found you back again, your touch. My Sisyphus.
I keep the rocks that you have moved in secret boxes.
They are what matters to me most,
what holds and carries on my shoulders.
What more would love be anyway:
the necklace captures all of me,
you don’t weigh much in memory,
and I’ll await you up there, when
finally you’re there to meet me on the hill.