My selfish interpretations
of our days together
send barely a ripple
into the endless silence of
who cares.

We embraced
on a movie screen
nobody watched
and upon which
only the incessant
habitual motion of my mind
keeps replaying.

Angels don’t care
how our story ended.
None of them feel sad
as my regret passes by
on its way to infinity
where it came from
and where it will  melt
into the impermanence
from which it sprang.

Peace comes only
when I listen
for that instant of silence
between impressions of you
and understanding comes
wthout drama
about a stage play
in which you were my love.