The words are not the same anymore,
wrapped in meanings that are concepts far
beyond my eyes, that fall upon my lips,
empty and bitter and fading.

My poems are like foreign aspects of my life now,
disappearing under my finger tips without further
notice, kneaded into the paper under my palms
and leaving me slowly, dreadfully, painfully.

Who am I now, that my voice has waned?
That the moon on my tongue no longer revolves,
with the earth and the sun, left trap in a desolate darkness
filled with brighter supernovas, and wanton galaxies.

Who am I now?
That the thread of my being has frayed,
and slipped, and weaved, through the contours of the universe,
as I slip easily through the cracks without being chased;
without being noticed (and I regret and regret, and regret, because I wish that they had).

Who are we, now that I'm gone,
and that you've gone with another? That you've followed
in their footsteps, left me, with one foot entering my grave?
With a rough necklace dangling across my collar? With silver lining your eyes, and with an exuberance that comes with letting go?

What are we now, that my poems no longer hold the essence of me,
as it remains to long for you? What are we, that we no longer hold what was once dear for us? What are we now, that the physical form of who I am remains to fade alongside your death? What are we, when all that remains of our past selves are gone?

Who are you?