It could be the foreign cold

or the concrete infection

of that city

 

that summons this debilitating fog:

blanketing my eyes, pervading

my mind, clawing

at my yearning heart.

 

What once was now is not,

and walking over

that grave—frigid fingers of the past’s

 

ghosts on my neck—it hits me.

Longing for what now is: the present,

free air, my love.

A knife piercing nothing

 

in the darkness. The world

beneath turns. I see

naught

 

and I return, heavy-

hearted and in need, restrained

from the elixir of my parched heart.

I see you, my beauty, and

 

the ethereal nourishment that comes

from you voice,

your touch, fills me:

 

an empty vessel with a memory

that aches, the echo

of a song that fights

the silent dark.

 

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