How melancholy are we now.

Your ghost heart beating so slowly,

I tell you things but they don’t make a sound.


How tired, how tired you are.

I meet apathy under your eyes.

How intangible is the light from the stars.


What is it to you now?

Is it silence, is it that I look into your eyes and see stone.

At what heartbeat of the clock did absence meet your bones?


I love you with every breath.

But each exhale left unreturned,

and each lesson left unlearned.

Leaves me with a bitter heart that still yearns


Words from your lips

It’s all.

A glance from your coffee eyes.


“I’ve been reading poems a lot”.

I tell you.


I’ve been writing poems a lot.

I don’t tell you.


◄ The Art of Moving Forward

I Still Think Of You ►


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