You are a million miles away
so far beyond my reach
that my touch will never again
be greeted by your laughter,
or the glint of mischievous dirt-brown eyes.
And the echoing of my name
through the colours of your voice
will never again fill this empty space.

You are a million miles away,
next to me, not in outer space.

I'm holding onto hope
God knows how long that will last
For what if our atoms split in the blast
And fate brought us cross country for that
The longing they have
Knowing each other as they did in the past
But like I said
I'm holding on to hope
God knows how long that will last

From the French of François Villon

Tell me now in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais,
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere—
She whose beauty was more than human?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where’s Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From Love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer
Sewed in a sack’s mouth down the Seine?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden—
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde the lady of Maine—
And that good Joan whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed and burned her there—
Mother of God, where are they then?—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword—
But where are the snows of yester-year?

My tummy tickles with the turning
of happiness
In my nose a new nip
of joy
My breath, the brief break
from air
My smile creeps calmly
up and up
A Boy

Self approval.
Self denial.
I can't seem to find the file that allows
self defile.
Innocent youth.
Corrupted age.
Read a book without a page.
Impossible.
What is a book without a page it's nonexistent.
Like the lack of confidence.
It's,
absent bliss on a kiss to the dis one kid says to the other,
like the abuse of, from the father to her brother and mother,
or,
hate that discriminates and makes race the way to keep pace.
We're nameless.

In search of the diamond in the mine,

don't dig yourself up so much

and become hollow, that

you end up filling it with tears and wine.