I haven't written your name in so long,
though I've been uttering it for days.
My distractions from you have come and gone,
now I'm left with fabricated memories,
dead-end hopes and fantasies.
I stopped writing poems months ago,
when you left the metaphors faded,
now my eyes have reopened and are
searching for signs of black tulips,
but spring is long gone,
Earth has turned golden.