The things I hold dear about you...
They don't fall away like the leaves of March.
But they don't bloom like the flowers of spring.
They lie still. In a cornerless room in me. Neither beloning nor alienating.
Like a plastic flower in a vase
you no longer call yours.

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You named the storm I build inside and now I call it my name.

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Do I go straight when the west wings whisper right and the east winds whisper left?

Can I call you my home if i found you before you?

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Different were the colours of light.
Different were the ways we burned.

You associated fire with smokes and screams
and I with matches and candles.

Different were the ways we loved.
Cold and heartless and yet so fierce and bright.

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You were cursive letters on a blank page. Signed.

Too poetic for a mundane me to understand.

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I start to write
pause to think
and wonder if it was always about you.

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How do I start when I know how it ends?

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lying under a sky full of stars,
knowing there's nothing to do but simply be.

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The walls close in, yet nothing moves.
A weight holds me back. Unseen but heavy.
Thoughts collide and their sharp edges cut me deep.
The silence i reach for slips away.
Breath trembles. Unsure and unsteady.

Who is this stranger in my skin?

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a sky robbed of stars,
a river that forgot its song,
a garden where flowers refuse to bloom.

The world still spins
but it drifts aimlessly.

You were my gravity.

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