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.

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

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