I remember those final moments
as I watched her pack her bags,
emptying drawers and closets
whispering through the halls
her words lost in the corners.
.
And I walked up to her, slowly,
as one would approach a ghost.
But she moved away from my hand
and tears were in her eyes. I stood,
like a statue, blank, unmoving.
.
She asked me the point of dating a poet,
if poems about her never were made.
Words failed me then, standing at the door,
words more beautiful than her weren't real,
and neither was I a poet nor a lover by myself.
.
Oh, the irony! Even with her crying eyes,
in her goodbye, so much poetry was told!
I wanted to tell her the magic in her being,
and how I longed for her happiness.
.
I thought about telling her, that next to her
moon, stars and sun were just street lamps
That in her sadness lived contradiction
and that the tears made her eyes shine,
and my fingertips desperately yearned her.
.
I understand now, that she never saw
how I formed constellations with her kiss
and within her breath was my existence,
that with her, my soul grew wise and old.
.
I guess there were never stars in her eyes,
or melodies in her laughter that she recognized.
She never noticed me looking at her from afar
or when, without me talking, she heard me.
Maybe she never loved me in my anger.
.
But seeing her there, so ready to leave,
my universe compressed and expanded,
and with a kiss I wrote the poetry she wanted
and to her lips, as a goodbye, I whispered:
.
*Never say I didn't write you anything