Syntax Of Absence Poem by Makhosonke Dhlamini

Hand me a pencil,
for the one I hold
was broken
at the birth of metaphor.

Its graphite heart split open,
spilling meanings
I cannot afford.

Our becoming—
weighted by time—
as poetry echoes
through veils of euphemism,
punctuated
by iron.

So lend me your pencil,
that I may sketch
these scaled tears
before sunrise
erases them.

For what we became
has mocked existence.

We share the same African sky,
yet our shadows
do not kiss.

Two silhouettes,
exiled from touch,
stretched across the same dust—
never becoming one.

Between us,
the wind translates nothing.
It carries your name,
then breaks it,
scattering syllables
across the veld
where even echoes
fail to align.

We are a language
undone by distance,
a sentence
time refuses to complete—
each heartbeat
a misplaced comma
in a rhythm
that cannot meet.

So lend me your pencil
once more;
let me write
where light cannot sever.

For if our shadows
cannot kiss,
then let our darkness
touch forever.

Take back your pencil,
for I am lost
in a poetry
that cannot find you,
cannot hold you,
cannot fully name your love.

And every word
I shape of you
arrives diminished—
a fading echo
of all
you were.

Makhosonke Dhlamini