There are faces I’ve never managed to avoid which invariably
appear after I douse the lights. When they appear behind these
autumn eyelids, they are so thin and light that the wind sets them
dancing and piles them in heaps. Most are tender to the point of
being cruel and so sweet they leave you quite embittered and
demand that you cherish their memory, demand that you feel
grief, demand that you grow old and frail.
There will come a day when I’ll appear behind your eyelids. But
when I do I won’t insist that you feel grief or demand that you
grow old and frail. The wind will set me dancing perhaps, but I
won’t be swept into a heap, for I’ll be but a single snowflake,
unlike any other, and just as you are drifting off to sleep I’ll melt
away without a word.