I walk through the corridor
And think you are there, behind
Me, watching, glued to my broken heart,
To my imagination that holds on to you
Still. I turn around and it seems as if
You have never been there at all.
Are you attached to me? To my gestures?
The way I speak and think? The way I
Endure your absence in this world
That pains me with its superficiality?
Where are you? Where have you been?
Why did you remain silent?
Maybe I don’t understand silence at all.
I walk into rooms, thinking you’re there.
I evoke your presence as if it never changed.
I write my love straight into the veins of silence.
It’s the hardest task to be with you there.
This form of silence. I was born in September.
You were born in July. You died in July.
I write to live. I live to write.
Be close to you where life blossoms still.
Croque-Melpomene 