I remember the days before,
when I could feel my veins
pumping through my chest
as I gasped for air
each morning,
my eyes shuddering
from the dawning sunlight.

The dreams were always the same,
always of you
and
your eyes;
those perfect spheres
that collected the pain
and suffering
of those who gazed upon them.

And then you began to cry...
your sea is too much for me.

I begin to drown.

You are not there to take me
from the turning tide.

And then I wake,
as if I spent years
down in that well to your soul,
with no hope but the cobblestone
walls that surrounded me.

And every morning
you would turn to me
as the light draped down
the arch of your back,
and those eyes would steal
another piece of my heart.

But those days are gone,
and your eyes have moved on.

Each day I lie still and stare
at the imprint your body has left
on my bed.

There is no heartbeat left here.

I am left with only a memory of cold,
biting air tinged with lavender
as we walked through gardens
at midnight.

I always thought it would be much louder than this.

A snap of a twig,
the crunching of leaves,
a whisper of your soft voice
in the brisk autumn air...

...nothing.

For you stole my heart
in the quiet of the night...
I listen to the silence of my soul
and finally understand.

You were never mine.