Wednesday, 9 November 2011


A thin pane of glassy pain
Seems to be separating us right now.
It’s icy to the touch, and fills
Me with a chill that it may never melt.

The heat of what we use to have
Seems quiet; it flowered for a
Week or two, and now is dwindling,
Giving off a warning, un-warming sorrowful smoke.

First-passion’s edge will dull
When the world and distance press on bones
And minds like the greedy weight of gravity
With a constant repression.

Do you miss me too, in the cloud of your unallocated
And mysterious sorrow?

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