There will be others
after you.

But
none are
as you are
to me.

I glance at
an empty seat
an unanswered text
and a cold cup of coffee.

You didn't have to say yes
to a date.

The most stalwart of loves
go unfulfilled;
a brilliant,
unfettered affection,
purified
by enduring heartache.

They are as
stubborn leaves in Autumn,
clinging to a branch.
As soon as the season is finished,
they shall be pruned without exemption,
yet they persist bitterly.

To see you,
as you see me,
is a difficult art.
To repress it all,
to paint over
all the vivid colours
you inspire in me
is a labour of love.

All I'd like
is to see you
as you see me.
But to hear your voice
is to fall for all the same spells;
of all things concerning you,
I am defenceless.

Will the passing years
dull the yearning
of a heavy heart?
Perhaps,
but how helpless
I feel,
how lonely.

Lucid dreams
are my only bridge
to those an insurmountable
distance away.

There is no ship
that can breech
the barrier of time.
There is no ticket
destined for yesterday.

To those of my past,
if only I could impart
a fraction of
the tenderness
that swells from my heart.
I remember you all
with a special fondness,
one that can only be
forged by
lingering regret.

The moment in passing
and the
moment incoming,
smudges into the other.
Time blends effortlessly with itself;
hours melt into one another,
days are indistinguishable,
but the difference between
the past and present
is as evident
as a knife in the gut.

One must wonder
if pain
is the burden of memory,
that to preserve the past,
one must pay dearly at the present.

Every ship
leaving the port,
are each
a metaphor.

To the
brave who
embark,
how often
do you cast
a backward gaze?

To those
who depart
for other shores,
I think of you
daily.
Hourly.

When shall it be my turn
to cast a backward gaze
on those I leave behind?

I was fine
with waiting;
the breeze
of melancholy
carries with it
the distant smell
of blossoming flowers.

If waiting means
I can spend my time
imagining those flowers,
whose nectar,
whose petals,
entrance me with such splendour,
then I do not mind waiting.

At times, I envy
those who chose
to pluck from the ground
the flowers they had cherished.
But I...
Alas.

How I long for
a past
I did not have.