It was the impossible indigo sky.
It was the yellow dust of sunlight.
It was the blank moonlight on her skin.
It was her notebook on the nightstand, with her glasses.
It was the wind rattling beach roses, shaking the palm grass.
It was the white surf sliding over sand, drawing it out to sea.
It was all that. It was more. It was the hour in the night when sleep
was a half remembered dream from long ago. It was that moment, when
everything stopped, and nothing could ever change again. It was that.
It was the scarf hanging on a chair, it was her hairbrush left behind.
It was waiting in the finality of it, in stillness, descending like fog.
It was the campfire in the midnight valley, with vast starfields blooming
in the mindless heavens. It was that, all that is just what it was.

after reading Mark Strand