Once you were a
walking tree. Drifting. No one
stops planting the seeds.

The pangs. Moons clap.
A renegade makes a temple to die.
Therewas no other space left.

I will not call you.
Your book has been soiled.
I cannot read my own writing.

dark small cloud dropped rain.
still, the small birds sing

The cold moon breaks through the crevices
and where do I hide?
there's nothing to haunt my mind
but only the guilts inside.

Told not to venture into the night
I braved in the power of moonlight
where every shadow was a ghost
every dark nook a lost coast.

If I had someone with me
it wouldn't be all that scary
but I left them on the way
thinking I wouldn't need them anyday.

The loves I betrayed
the souls I traded
descended behind the tree
like the waning moon.

Before long the dark would devour me
knowing, I moved down with the moon
with none but the sighs on my side..

The derelict offered no place to hide.

In the end we are the sum
total of the efforts we invested,
or conversely our failed deficiency
in that regard. With no one to
appreciate or blame, but ourselves.

“It occurs to me that I really can't remember your face in any precise detail. Only the way you walked away through the tables in the café, your figure, your dress, that I still see.”
And I can’t say it much better than that. Except it wasn’t a dress but, in fact, a cotton tee. Not the tables but the way the streetlight bounced off your jaw. I don’t remember your voice anymore or even the words you gave me. I can only dig my fingers deeply into the body of your laugh.