Dusty pages, amongst sullen skies of grey.
The smell of dry citrus and chamomile in the air,
my heart reaching for the heavens . . .
where your laughter once thundered down from above filling the chasms of solitude, of longing, of yearning to hear you once more.
To feel your touch, a slight warmth against my skin, turns to a ghost pain; for that is all that you bring.
My fingers trace your face across the yellowed photographs, your smile, so full of life, so full of dreams, all gone in a second. These memories that envelope me, free me, save me, they draw me into this dying sea.
As I float, I see myself, fractured, broken, reflecting what is gone.
But its not me, it is someone else that stares back at me,
mocks me, for he seems happy. . .  
& I know that can not be me.