it is a meaningless curiosity,
to wonder where you went.
the anonymity of the future
seems to disembody what came
and went.

and i sat, and wept,
and inhaled what your cigarette bled.
there, lonesome, where
two sparks had once met.

a fire so bright that  
dripped kerosene where it stepped,
was put out by time,
and i observed as it crept.

i did spend restless nights,
and i prepare. more will come.
but trust me my dear,
one day you’ll know where i'm truly from.

just as you told me we were,
that there’d be no more “us”
as the sun rose in morn’
and then set off towards dusk.

the light will dismiss,
like the flicker from a chalice,
my skin will thicken
like mountains on an atlas.

and i will rise, and i will tremble,
as my words craft me a temple,
colossal in height, and treacherous in-depth,
where my scripture will live, and in solitude kept.

but you’ll hear, and you’ll listen, and you’ll reflect on my image
as i watch myself glisten, from you and beyond.

on that day, understand my duty as an artist,
and why my memory of you will last.
as the suffering turned to art for my future
will be composed of our distant past.

-melancholicreator