When your name enters her mind,

It shatters across the walls of her brain.

Like a train with too much cargo.

Rattling away on old tracks.


The key lies in accepting that you’re there.

Because you have been.

The threads to you are cut, a silence established.

A life regaining its blessing.


And yet dreams revisit, twist and digest.

You are not you.

But what you left behind; she’s cautious.

You give her morning headaches and yet she smiles because she knows that it’s over.


It’s you running through her system.

It’s your gradual disappearance.

Until you’ve collided with all forms.

And begin to become golden as her imagination weaves.


“Portrait of a Woman” by Kuroda Seiki (1866-1924)

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