You stopped telling me you love me when you started telling her how beautiful she looks in that dress. I should have known better than to think our relationship would last longer than a year but I've always been naïve and I guess some things never change. I spent three months convincing myself that you still cared, two months gripping onto fading memories and one month thinking about every "someday" and every "always" but I guess always to you means something totally different than what it is to me. Three months have passed since you stopped telling me you love me and I hope she makes you happy in the ways that I never could. I hope she kisses your forehead and I hope she strokes the side of your hand with her thumb when you're not doing so well. I guess I'm not doing so well, I haven't been feeling okay since you left me three months ago but maybe I was just living on borrowed time and I guess it's finally time to give it back.

Half past twelve. Time has gone by quickly
since nine o'clock when I lit the lamp
and sat down here. I've been sitting without reading,
without speaking. Completely alone in the house,
whom could I talk to?

Since nine o'clock when I lit the lamp
the shade of my young body
has come to haunt me, to remind me
of shut scented rooms,
of past sensual pleasure - what daring pleasure.
And it's also brought back to me
streets now unrecognizable,
bustling night clubs now closed,
theatres and cafes no longer here.

The shade of my young body
also brought back the things that make us sad:
family grief, separations,
the feelings of my own people, feelings
of the dead so little acknowledged.

Half past twelve. How the time has gone by.
Half past twelve. How the years have gone by.

There are those who are more enamoured
of dreams than reality
wherein lie their secret longings
cradled in imagination and fantasy--

to be in love with someone they had never met
to surrender to a face, a smile, a kiss,  a moment of ecstasy
beyond the pale of insipid daily living--
far transcending every earthly beauty.

I am a canvas
Painted in harsh strokes
With kind words
Mistakes blend in
Over time and diligence
But are never erased
They sit quietly
Under layers of oil paint
Built into my foundation

I learned today that for eyes to be like oceans they don't have to be blue

they tell her to let her imagination fly
but they don't know how much her hands shake
when she thinks of his smile.
the sun always sets
but the sound of his laughter
ringing inside her mind won't.
she wants to make a home in the stars
that twinkle in the galaxy of his irises,
but she knows better than to find comfort
in someone else's body,
especially a body that she has never
had the chance to hold.
they tell her to let her imagination fly
so she keeps thinking that she will someday
make a bed inside his collarbones
and that she will spend her mornings
watching him trace the outlines of her hips
with his fingertips like she used to do
with the strings of the violin
she used to play as a child,
but no one ever told her
that you can't make homes out of human beings.
she tries to imagine a world
where the distance between them is shortened,
where she doesn't have to look at the moon
and pretend that he is looking at the same one
even though he's probably asleep
and dreaming about someone else's eyes.
they tell her to let her imagination fly
and she wants to let it skyrocket
past the ozone and land next to where he is,
on the other side of the solar system.
they tell her to let her imagination fly
and she does, but not because she wants to.
she has to make up all the words herself,
the way he smells and the way he tastes
and the way he sounds in the air.
she knows that everyone needs a place
and that it shouldn't be inside of someone else,
but imagining a world with him
is better than imagining a world where there is no love
and where everything goes wrong.
which is to say, imagining a world with him
is better than imagining a world without him.