the words used to flow like silk through my fingertips
i used to know exactly how to weave them
make them fall into tapestries, hang them from walls
emblazoned with unadulterated innocence.

it wasn't until you asked to look at my creations
that i realised sunlight could be so damaging
my words felt frivolous under your scathing gaze
and they stuttered, crumbled. my tapestries fell.

now they're dust and i'm on my knees, crawling
grasping fistfuls that seep through my hands
you can't write about something you can't feel
and now i can't feel anything.

this is the last poem i'll write about you.

I began every morning afterwards

Awakening early enough

To watch the sunset

Alone

To prove to myself

That beautiful things still exist
In my world

Even without you

Naked eye,
silent sorrounded heart.

what's that sound?
elderly and ancient crown
from a spirit beyond recognition.

a vast dark room
comfortable crouching,
no hope,
no light,
yet he takes a glance into my soul.

Naked eye,
he sees through me
directly to my soul
his silence seems to claim;

"poor pretentious soldier",
"come home",
"come home"...