Spent, tired across waters unknown,
Driven from your old, warm nests,
Biting winds, bone-clinging, unyielding snow,
This is not your home.

Who sent you here, where we live and die?
With your head held high you stay in my lands,
What do you come as?

A raider from the desert, slave to the sand,
Where mountains you made dust with the wind in your wings?
Ran away from the sun, like

A refugee running from war,
With your lands burnt, scorched by someone you knew,
Who meant you no harm

What did you hope to find so far away,
In this stark stretch of cold that never ends?
You may want to live, but we preserve

This is not that village in the hills,
With a green lake in a sea of white banks
Where you perch in the temple when the sun goes down,
Worshipped like a faceless god by a man of many shapes
and a broken heart he hides from you

Here, it's cold.

I want you to scream
for me.

I want you to burn,
inside,
at the thought of her next to me,
when you know that I am happy,
and you know that's what you want for me,
so you must stay at bay

I want you to flush,
from shame,
when you tell your friends,
how long you have been wanting me,
how really its just all a joke,
And why you couldn't move on.

I want you to cringe,
and wince,
when you look me in the eyes,
and try to hold my piercing gaxe,
but fail, and look away.

I want you to cry,
and shudder,
when you lie awake at night,
when you wonder why there's no one there,
and wish I were by your side.

I want you to sigh,
and ponder,
how it is you have said it all,
how you know there is no hope,
but you keep trying, even so.

I want you to feel,
in short,
the slightest hint of passing days,
dying for every second spent,
feeling this for you.

I want you now to forget,
all but the first three words,
of every stanza above.

I woke up this morning, and realised,
the romance in me had died, sometime in the night.
It was a peaceful demise,
Like a death from starvation, disease, old age,
Just wasting away behind the scenes, without a fight.

I am no longer the ashes on my pillow,
Just memories moving through a murky past,
The sinews of my being move me to look away from the remains,
Afraid to know if it was an end he deserved,
But I think he would have liked that.

I move on with my being,
Taking pleasure from what is here and now,
A cold drop of water pleases more my shoulder,
Than the scribblings of a mind, fevered,
With visions beyond mankind,
With sweat on his brow.

The bed lies empty as I come back,
The room frozen in a wanton sigh,
I clasp the folds of the blanket, afraid,
Of a shroud debased by my existence,
To lay down my head, and cry.