My love, I want to hold you close, locked in an embrace,
as we dance alone on the moon.

'And who's going to pay for that?', she replies.
And that's when I realise, why I love her so.

The story of us.

There is no story really.  Well not of 'us' at least.  Not yet.  I just liked that line and thought I’d use it to write.  To write this.  You spoke with me today.  You pulled me into a conversation, but so terrified that my ***** little secret will be found out, I pull away. And, you weren’t alone.  Who’s he?  He is so ******* good-looking!  I see the way you look at him, and know I can't compete.  I'm so jealous, that I just want to peel away.

The story of you.

Do you know that you have the most engaging smile?  I am sitting in the dark, thinking. That’s what I’m doing right now, sitting in the dark, thinking about your smile.  It was not supposed to turn out this way.  This was not my plan.  You were meant to be forgotten. You were meant to be never minded.  I know that smile, and knew you would never be mine.  My smile now stolen, by him.  Who was that guy? And, Jesus Christ, why is he so ******* good-looking?!

The story of me.

I existed before you, you know.  I’m almost sure I did.  Before I saw that smile, before I heard that voice,  before, I saw that...face.  Before, before, before.  Before I saw you, I had a pulse, I’m almost sure I did. Who is that guy?  He's tall, and so ******* good-looking. And, with a ******* ******* beard!  I mean, come on!  I too, have a beard. Doesn’t that count?  I know, I know.   I'm not so tall, and I know, I am not so ******* good-looking.  But, like him, but just like him, I have a beard.

And like him, and just like that guy, I now have A Story of Us.

Did you know that I once wrote you a poem?
Yes, I wrote you a poem! Once.
Carefully choosing words, strategically placing them one after each other,
desperately trying to convey, I don't know what.
I think it was love - so you told me.
I wrote you a poem, didn't you read it?

A friend told me to write about real love.
'Real love', she said. 'Your stories are too melancholy', she said.
I see them as funny, as love can be sometimes.
Wasn't our love funny (sometimes)?
I think it was - so you told me.
Do you know that I once wrote you a poem?

We parted as we started, equally dividing the plants,
the books, the plates, the cutlery and eventually the friends.
We saw each other the day, glancing out the corner of our eyes,
pretending to be elsewhere.
We saw, and passed without one word being spoken. Not one.

Don't you know that I once wrote you another poem?
Yes, I wrote you another poem! Once.
Carefully choosing words, strategically placing them one after each other,
as I wrote about 'real love' - I think.
Yeah, it was real love and, a poem with no words...
...because as with 'real love',
the words were never spoken.

I once wrote you a poem,
didn't you read it?

My words are silent.
Try as you might, you cannot hear them.
That is their strength,
like Ninjas in the night,
you don’t hear them coming,
but you know when they have arrived.

My words are silent.
They do not shout down the street, or come with a siren, or bell,
they trickle down the page,
performing tricks, entertaining you.
Now you see them, now you don’t.

My words are silent.
You will not find them on your volume button.
My words are silent,
but you will hear them all the same.

I’m in the pub and "You Can’t Buy Me Love" comes on. I know I can’t.

I sit, nursing a glass of wine for maybe two or three hours. Brooding. Thinking.  I remembered the other night, while in bed, I cried.  Not knowing why, but I thought of you. No thought in particular. Just a momentary flash. Lying there in the dark, I welled-up for a second, saw you were there and then fell back asleep.  And now, the wine now in my head tells me I was upset because I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss much these days.

"Every Day A Little Death" remembered in the pub.

I wanted you to think me a genius. But I opened my mouth, letting the words fall-out one by one and in the process became a fool.  You tell me to ‘go to hell’ and all I can do is laugh, which causes you to laugh.  We both know I’m in hell. I love you, and I tell you so.  ‘Yeah I know,’ you say.  You too, are in my hell.

We still make love as if it’s our first time. You hold me, touch and caress me as you always have, turning what I think is minutes into hours. I want it to never end. I awake the next day, look in your eyes and feel like a complete failure. You feel it too, my failure. My new day in hell starts, and you come with me – to keep me company.

Back from the pub.

You are sleeping. I watch you. An exercise I have performed many times before.  I stand in the dark. Watching. Listening. To you. You are just so beautiful, so ******* beautiful. I well-up. What the **** are you doing with me? I want you to go away and find yourself some happiness. I won’t miss you, you know. I won’t. I crawl into bed, failing miserably not to wake you. You roll-over to me, kissing my back and neck. ‘I love you.’

Kissing your hands, your beautiful hands, I reply, ‘Yeah I know.’

Opening his mouth,
letting his words pour out,
he went from extraordinary,
to extra ordinary.

Did I ever tell you, the first time I saw you, I fell?  In love?  That we were in the making for a year and a half – you just didn’t know it?  That I stayed silent, keeping my emotions in check and that it seemed like forever, and even longer?  That, for 1 year, 6 months, the voices in my head, time after time, gave me reasons?  Reasons to stay silent?  That, I finally plucked-up the courage, to say something?  That...  That... That….?  

The first time I saw you, words I never heard before hummed in my head.  Hummmmmmmm.  The first time I saw you I wrote a first poem.  Then a second.  And then, a third.  And with all those sweet humming words, I wrote a fourth, and have not stopped humming words since.  But after 1.6 years, with all those letters, and with all those words, I didn’t even know how write out your name.

“I thought the moon and stars rose in your eyes”.  I did.  I still do.

Like so many times before, times which I know like the back of my hand, you walk into the room, you grab a coffee, and you sit down next to me.  And like the back of my hand, which I know so well, the voices tell me to stay silent.  I do.  Once again, we sit, side-by-side, silence in-between our space.  But then I hear that hummmmmmmmm.  Those sweet words, those sweet humming words start to fill my head.  Build, build, build.  Building until I have enough words to finally ask, ‘did I ever tell you, the first time I saw you I fell?  In love?’

You smile that smile that I know like the back of my hand, and reply ‘yes, that’s why I married you.’

We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
we know that even in death,  there is no guarantee of sleep.
My turn.  Hand slightly shaking, I count backwards.  10, 9, 8, 7..
Will I or won’t I?  5, 4, 3, 2... I will!
I pull the trigger!   ‘click’.  
We laugh.  It is not my time to go.
Big boys, playing with boy toys.  

I want to tell you that I love you,
but boys don’t say that to boys,
I learned that lesson a long time ago.
Jenny drives over to join us
I watch, feeling jealous as you kiss her; how you look into her eyes; how you smile.  
Watching you slightly stroking her breast, I know I shouldn’t,  but wanting to watch, and unable to peel away,
I can feel myself getting hard.
Playing Russian Roulette.
I am 32, way too old to be playing this game.
I have to wait for a suitable moment to eventually head to the toilet.
My sensitivity heightened being in same space as you,
I try to stifle my groan as I ***.

Not wanting to be a third wheel, I’m heading back home.  
Music blaring I’m singing to some camp classic.
As I pull into the driveway, I can see that you’ve left me a message.
You and Jenny have had argument and she’s gone.  I go back to yours.
We talk about Jenny.  How she’s a *****, how all she does is complains, about how crap she is in everything she does, but how at least she gives good head.  We talk and drink.
We drink, we talk, solving nothing, not even our own world problems.  
We stumble up the stairs, laughing about all the stupid **** we just drank ourselves silly about.

I finally get you to your room, plopping you on the bed.  I turn to walk out, but you pull me towards you, with me falling on top you.  We are face-to-face, as I try to pull away, you pull me back.   ‘Man, I tell you, if I were gay, I’d be all over you’, and then you kiss me, on the mouth.  You. Kiss.  Me. On.  My.  Mouth.  We kiss.  We both stop, then stare at each other.  I don’t know what to say.  You smile, and repeat, ‘if I were gay, I’d be all over you’ and fall off into a drunken sleep.

We play a game of Russian Roulette, careful not to wake the dead,
because we know that even in death, there is no guarantee of sleep.
Falling asleep on the couch, I know that you told me love me;
‘but boys don’t say that to boys’, I tell myself, ‘I learned that lesson a long time ago’.

I want to wake every morning, look into your eyes,
and have each day be an opportunity to fall in love anew.

The Drama Queen...

When your Crown of Thorns turns out to be nothing more than a branch of a tree.

One to stop the anger.
Two to stop the voices. 

Three to stop the verbal abuse. 

Four to stop the manipulation. 

Five to stop the betrayal. 

Six to stop the physical pain.
Seven to stop the mental pain. 

Eight to stop the confusion.
Nine to stop the paranoia.

Ten to stop breathing.

With each kiss, I expect you to turn this old toad, into a Prince.

But with each kiss, I become a King.

Each day for 40 years, he asked her to marry him, and on each day for 40 years, she said ‘yes’.

She once asked him, ‘after 40 years of marriage, why do you still ask?’

‘Just in case you’ve changed your mind,’ he replied, ‘just in case, you’ve changed your mind.’

You tell me to keep singing,
I am. 'Without words, there’d be no songs.'  I made that.
Listen to my sweet, sweet blues,
my high, high reds, and my low, low browns.
I am singing.  I’ve never stopped.
You’ve just stopped listening.

You tell me to keep singing,
And I tell you, I am.  Tell me, what would you like to hear?
Do you want to turn my blues into red, my red into blues,
and for me to have no colours in-between?
To turn me into you?

You tell me to keep singing,
I am singing.  I’ve never stopped.
You’ve just stopped listening.

Her decision had been made.


She snuck in, past the guards, during the very early hours of the morning. Having found his cell, she stopped and stared at him. In the darkness, she could see his swollen face, beaten so badly, she thought him nearly unrecognisable. This, she had not expected. She made the journey because she convinced herself that she needed to see him one last time. To tell him she was sorry, that everything was going to be ok, and he would back in his home soon, surrounded by his family. But now here, those words would not come. She was too afraid, and even more ashamed to call-out to him. She stood motionless for 15 minutes (maybe more). Still no words came. As she left, she heard him mutter - but she did not stop. She kept her eyes forward, carefully slipping past the guards once more, never looking back.

She was alone.

That's how she started each day, and ended each evening. An empty spot at the dinner table, the empty space in bed, those were her stark reminders. Mother, as she called her, had died some time ago. And, while she desperately tried to hold onto the memories - her childhood, her adulthood - they soon faded. The fading memories making her loneliness even greater. Nothing to cling to, but the present.

Mother had told her to live her life, to be her own woman, and never rely on a man to provide anything to and for her. 'The only thing you need from a man,' Mother would say, 'is his seed.' 'He plants the seed, but you feed it, you nourish it, you protect it.  You are the one who gives it life. In your belly.'

She did need him at one point. That’s why she called.

She first saw him on the train platform. Tall, with skin so dark, so dark chocolate brown, it shown a blue tint. His auburn eyes. Standing upright, standing so proud. She stared, he ignored. That moment gone.  Sometime later, she saw him again, on the same train platform. She stared. He smiled. He talked. She listened. She talked. He listened. Six months later, the seed was planted. Four months later, she left, having decicded that she wanted to tend to the garden on her own. Mother was happy she, her only daughter, had wisely heeded her advice.

Mother could not prepare her for what would happen next.

She was preparing for life, not death. You don’t nourish, tend and protect with the intention that your garden will die. Her grief, beyond her explanation, beyond her expression. Silence. Mother too - swallowing her grief (and disappointment) - stayed quiet. What advice can one give on death, yet on the death of a baby? It would take a year before their silence was fully broken.

Mother was gone three years later. Loneliness descended into her life. 'Mr Wolf,' she cried out.

She saw him again on a train platform. Still tall, still so dark, with skin so chocolate, so dark brown, it had a blue tint. His auburn eyes. He stood upright. He stood so proud. She stared. He saw, he ignored. He stood proud. She stared. He looked. She smiled. He stood proud. She talked. He listened. She talked more. He listened. Months later, the seed was planted.

She thought the time had passed for new life to grow in her belly. Yet, something did. It started as a low, low hum. A warmth. A glow. When he held her in his arms, when he kissed her, when they made love, when he talked, when he listened, when he argued. When he touched her. When she longed for him to touch. She felt a new life growing inside her.

She was reborn

She had called for him. 'Mr Wolf,' she cried out, but she never thought he would come.

Both feet on the floor and the reality of my day starts.

I didn’t think it was going to be one of those days.  I woke-up with so much energy, but then remember that you are not here.  Where the **** are you?  It has been like what, three months?   You have been gone for that long.  Three ******, long months.  

My legs are like molasses.  I take steps towards the bathroom, which seem to take me forever.  Finally I arrive, to bask in the bliss of my first morning ****.   I make my way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on, before turning-on my phone.  Yes!  I have messages from you.  But, it’s the same old, same old - you’re having a good time, meeting loads of people, seeing loads of things, blah, blah.  The standard *******.  But you still haven’t answered my question, “when are you coming back?  I miss you - things are lonely here without you **”.  I’ve asked it, over and over, with each message you send.  And each time, I get no response.

Today is Tuesday, Shrink-Tuesday.

I hate the guy.  Not the guy himself, I mustn’t over exaggerate.  What I really hate, is the idea of seeing a shrink.  I’m sure he’d be cool to go out and have a drink with, but as a shrink he *****.  All shrinks ****. I don’t even want to be here.  I already know what’s wrong with me.  This is the first time we’ve been apart in 15+ years and I’m feeling it, you know.   I’m really feeling it.  I miss you.  I tell the shrink that I’ve received messages from you.  I get that same flat look he always gives me.  Interested, but not so interested.  And each time, he asks me what you said, how I felt about it and what I replied.  But this time, I’ve brought the phone.  That excites him a little.  I can see it in his face.  He goes through the messages, and hands it back to me.  ‘So how does her response make you feel?’  I want to punch him right, bang in his gob.  The session’s over.  I ask when he thinks he’ll sign me off to get back to work.  I just need to something to do.  Something to occupy my time.  ‘We’ll see.  Let’s talk about it next week.’

Tuesday turns into Wednesday; Wednesday into Thursday, and days, into days, into days. My daily routine continues.  Wake, ****, coffee, check messages, remain idle.  Saturday rolls around.  Still no news from you.  I have the gruesome twosome over for a visit - your mother and my mother.  All they do is fuss, fuss, fuss.  I’m not sure why they don’t think that I can’t manage the house on my own?  I know you’ll be laughing at that when you read it. No really, they’re alright.  I must admit, I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I'm glad to have their company.  And, for the first time, I’m looking forward to Shrink-Tuesday.  I realise that I’m not coping.  I just need you back.  We go for a ride.  They both insist.  We stop-off for a quick bite to eat at Bernies Café (you love that place). With lunch finished, your mother wants to visit your father’s grave.  You know how much I hate cemeteries.

En route to the cemetery, and within twenty minutes we arrive.  I want to stay in the car, but those two wont’ have it.   ‘You came for fresh air.’  Fresh air yes; to walk among the dead, no - how creepy.  They mean well, so I acquiesce.  We arrive at your father’s grave.   Mum and I, our arms intertwined, watch as your mother, after sitting down on her portable chair, places fresh flowers on his grave.  Your mother is talking him, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can still tell that she misses him.  Your mother’s done.  I am more than ready to leave.  As I turn to go, mum pulls me back, ‘Go on David, it would be such a waste if you didn’t say hello.’  I can hear your mum’s voice behind me ‘Hello Janine, we’ve come for a little visit.  And look who I have with me?  David.  David’s come to visit you’.  I hear your name, and I become paralysed.  I want to run but I am unable to move. Mum is now standing in front of me, and like a mother with her child, she takes me in her arms, and slowly turns me around.  My eyes are closed.  I don't want to see.  But I know they can't stay closed forever.  I open my eyes, and it’s there.  I can see it - the tombstone.  Mum’s holding onto me, and all I can hear is my silence. Silence and my tears.  There’s so much I want to say.  But I can’t.  It hurts so much, that I can’t speak.  And what could I say that I’ve not said in the past 3 months?  I miss you.  Things are so lonely here without you.  And I just want to know, when you’re coming back.

I looked into the Devil's eyes,
and waited for him to preach the Gospel.

A destroyer of hopes and dreams - even her own.
She set out to ruin everyone (and everything) she was jealous of.
Her mission accomplished, she soon found there was no one and nothing left but herself.

Thinking outside the box,
is not necessary,
if you refuse to go in it.

You called yourself a failure because you chipped a finger nail.
That’s when I knew I needed so much more than you;
and you needed so much less of me.

You are terrified of growing old and having things sag;
  I am terrified of growing old and saggy without you.

'This message was deleted.'

That was the last thing I read from you.  Having come home to find nothing of you left, besides your ring on the kitchen table.  I sat at that table for sometime, before deciding to write you a simple one-worded message, 'Why?'  'This message was deleted, was the response.' Deleted?  How can you delete a memory?  How can years be simply, deleted? That ring sat on the kitchen table, in the same spot, for exactly three months, with hope that its orignal owner would come back to claim it.

Three months and one day later, I decide to call your bluff.   I take my ring off, placing it side by side to yours, and go to work.  On my way home, there is an excitement and anticipation that I have not felt for some time.  I rush to put the key in the door.  And as I turn the lock, I expect something new, something different, some kind of change.   But the truth, still remains the truth.  There the two rings sit.  Side-by-side.

We see each other out and about, neither one acknowledging the other.  Each time, walking in our separate ways - which is exactly how it should be.  I have no bad feelings towards you.  None.  Time, as they say, does heal wounds - old and new.  And you know what?  I still wear my ring, taking it off only and when I sit down at the kitchen table.

Stop!
The clock will run out.
Tick-stop, toc-stop!
The clock will run out.
Minute-by-minute,
hour-by-hour,
days, weeks, months.
Stop!
The clock will run out.

Every beginning has its ending.
Every ending leading to a
Stop!
The clock
will run
out.

Tick...tick...
tick...tick...tic...k
Stop!
Toc...toc...­toc...
to...c
Stop!

The clock will run....STOP!

I had a dream that my lungs filled with toxic waste called air.

Each inhale becoming at last, an exhale.  

An inhale, becoming my last
exhale.

The other day I wondered, who you spent Valentine’s Day with?
Was it a him?
Was it a her?

I wondered the other day, was that look for me, or was that look at me?
Did I mis-judge your smile?
Your stare. That stare, was it in my mind?

The other day I wondered, if you knew, I once stared (and stared),
and stared, at the back of your neck, waiting to ask if you needed a seat.
I lie, I just wanted to know if you needed my seat. Instead, I sat.
And I sat. And I sat, eyes closed, listening, listening, listening.
I listened to your voice.
I watched. I watched as you found another, a seat that is.

Gone.
My first of, what I now know, many chances, gone.

I wondered the other day what it would be like to lay next to you. No I lie, I wondered what it would be like to lay with you, entangled, enveloped; to look in your eyes; to kiss your lips, your neck; to touch your skin;

To...
To...
To...

The other day I wondered,
do you even know,
I exist?

In a world where time waits for no one, I am a ticking time bomb.  Each letter like the second hand of a clock, waiting for an explosion of words.

Standing on the edge of the dark and cold abyss, I heard you yell....

"Jump!”

You told me you will love me forever,
which scares me.
Forever, will never be an eternity.

He mortgaged his soul to the Devil,

to get nothing in return,

but the realisation,

he was nothing more,

but

Extra

Ordinary

I wanted to write rhyming poetry,
but realise I have no rhythm.

Without words,
there’d be no songs.

Having had the last laugh, he saw the humour in his ultimate death.

In living, others, he would never find out, just got to laugh a lot longer.

Songs without music,
 is pure poetry
.

Listen, can't you hear the music I’m making?

Let me be the person that tells you, every single morning, that you are both beautiful and remarkable.

Some days I think I’m going to achieve such greatness,
then I eventually realise,
that it’s just trapped wind.

Some day people will ask, 'what inspires you the most?' I will turn, look at you, and without having to say one word, they all will know my answer.

Eyes closed to dream.

To dream about you.

Not a dream of a yesterday you,

or a you of today,

but the you of tomorrow.

But, no dreams came.

My eyes open and you are there.

There, standing in front of me.

There, standing face-to-face.

I feel the cool air of your breath on my lips.

You kiss me and my eyes close.

My eyes close, and I still see you.

You say something, I hear you, but am too afraid.

Afraid you won’t be there.

I close my eyes even tighter, trying to hold on.

Hold-on to a dream.


I open my eyes and you are there, still.

Still standing in front of me, still face-to-face. Still

The cool air from your breathing brushing my lips.

Your lips touch mine, and you tell me things.

Each word you speak, vibrating from your lips to mine.

Pulling you closer, closing my eyes,

I now feel you talk. You talk and I feel you.

I am,

moved.


But you have moved me before.

Each time, with your words.

I have listened to you before.
Each time, 
clinging to every word.

Stripping each down to its letter,

each time, trying to find meaning,

any kind of meaning. Each time,

to only find
they
were 

worthless.


You kiss me again.

My eyes open, so I can see.

Your eyes are open too.

And we kiss. And as we kiss,

with our eyes wide open,

I realise then,

as you realised some time ago,


I am on a Fool’s Errand.

A foolproof plan
is only as foolproof as the fool
that came up with the plan

When I let my stubbornness and individuality get the better of me,
I always say, next time will be different...
but then my stubbornness and individuality get the better of me.

I’m not sure if I ever told him that I loved him.
I have tried so many times to remember if I did.
Not knowing, makes me even sadder.
I did love him, and I loved him a great deal.
But when you know your love will destroy their dreams, you remain silent.
I was accused by many of pushing him away so I could be free,
they never knowing, I pushed him away from me so he could be free.
I am not sure if I ever told him I loved him,
but I know if I did, he would never be free.

Unable to hold back my tears, as I packed a suitcase. 'Why are you leaving? This just makes no ******* sense!' You are yelling, taking things out of the suitcase, as I put them in. I have to admit, it made no sense. None whatsoever. I am in love with you. There is no doubt in my mind about that, and have been since that first day you spoke to me. I knew that I wanted to marry you even before our first date. When I’m with you, when I’m holding you in my arms, when I’m kissing your lips, when I’m close to you, my world is complete. And that is the issue, without you, I am not whole. I am not free.

But I don’t say any of that. It wouldn’t help you to understand any better. Instead, I close my suitcase, and leave the house, our house, knowing that I’m leaving behind things I will never recover, and drive off hoping that I can make myself complete without you.

If I won't be remembered for my songs,

I want to be remembered for your words.


Never stop talking my love.

Never stop.

You told me that I write with 'angst'.  I respond, telling you that I write with words, and leave it to you to add the angst.

I turn the page.

You turn it back,
your hands ***** with old ink.
You let go of your future, so you can hold onto the past.
I want to dance, but my legs won’t let me.

Odourless.

The smell of yesterday’s worries.
I worried too, not for me, but for you.
Worried with songs and laughter, not for you, but for me.
I want to sing, but my voice won’t let me.

Tasteless.

I feed you a taste of your tomorrow.
This is your chartered trip to your undiscovered lands.
I watch you cry.
I want to speak, but my mouth won't let me.

I am your pod.

Consume, replicate and then duplicate me.
You cling to my future, so you can hold onto your past.
I want to breathe, but my lungs won't let me.

Empty words.

You feed me your empty words.
I take your words and fill them with meaning.
My meaning.
I want to hate you,
but my legs,
my voice,
my mouth,
my lungs,

and my heart

won't let me

We are all, works in progress,

Working towards progress,

Progressing towards work.

Working to progress it out,

to work it out.

Works in progress.

Progress, work.

Progress works!

Work progresses.

Working it.

Work It.

Werk.

Work.

You have a gift for deception.
Handing it out as if it is a gift from the Queen herself.
But what can one do with deception,
(which is just a lie in disguise)?
Especially a lie presented as a gift?
It cannot be unwrapped and then rewrapped,
with the hope of re-gifting it to someone else.
At least not intentionally.
I have re-gifted your lies.
Not realising that’s what they were,
I re-gifted your lies wrapped in betrayal,
and then tied, ever so cleverly,
in a ribbon of your deception.

You told me, once, you loved me. Once.
And so desperate to believe in fairy tales,
I believed you.
But the deception of love was not your greatest lie.
Having told that lie many times before.
You easily applied it as you do mascara.
With one grand stroke, Love is applied.
And what can be easily applied,
can just as easily be washed away.
But your greatest lie?
Never leaving.  Always remaining.
Thinking that door was firmly closed,
I awake each morning to find you are here.  Still.
You said you would leave.
Why are you here?
Still?

You told me too, you loved my voice.  Once.
That it was beautiful.
You beckoned me, use that voice,
that beautiful, beautiful voice.
And as I spoke, you stole it.
Stolen to claim it as your own,
because you know you have none,
well not one that anyone would listen to.
I wake each morning to find you are still here,
And scream!
But it is wrapped in your deception,
and then tied in a ribbon of your betrayal,
so all I get is your still silence.

You said you would leave,
but you are still here.

Still.

You tell me that love is not always beautiful;

a lie betrayed each time I look into your eyes.

Take me to a vast and open field and with my last elegy being read, release my ashes as you set me free, free in death, to run with the wind.  No, tears you will not cry - at least not tears of death; but cry for me tears of birth.  Like a new born emancipated from the womb taking its first breath, I will be liberated to take breaths elsewhere.


Tell him.  Tell him that I loved.  Tell him that I loved, if not only him.  Tell him I tried to find the words, I tried.  But I soon found there wasn't enough songs to sing, nor enough words to write and then, never enough time.  Tell him, I became impatient for more time, and then impatient with the time I had.


I want to be buried under a moonlit sky, with only the whistle of the trees’ silence, with no words spoken as I spoke them all before.  Write no words too, as those letters will never tell the stories that we've already told.  Cry, you will not, at least not from my words; and least not from our words.
In her ear whisper.  

In her ear whisper that no matter what, I will stand at her side.  Tell her, my mother dear, the whisper she hears will be mine.  Tell her the whistling of the trees in the silence, with no words said, will be me.  Tell her to take me to a vast open field, so my last elegy can be read, and to spread my ashes with the wind.  Tell her there, to set me free.

You freed me.
With you, my limited world, became limitless;
and all that was impossible, suddenly became possible.