i live in the silence that you left,
and create these formless,meaningless words,
the darkly brilliant residues of forgotten pain,
that form poetry,slightly iridescent,slightly eccentric,
but always familiar,
reminding the heart of some half-forgotten place,
once visited in some distant childhood,
a happy memory,now full of nostalgic ache,
like you,
opalescent,shimmering,alluring pain…

no.i dont regret you,
and these lines are not refrains of guilt,
probably the swansong of love-maybe,
but no bitterness,just a longing,
and a sense of something precious,somehow lost,
like an unfinished poem,
or maybe a half-forgotten dream,
real,and vitally important,
and just out of reach.

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