Tuesday, 3 April 2012


You get used to the cold, after a while
the bits and pieces of a life which
you refused to pick up, indicate
that there was always something
or someone else.

A rose by any other name...
another name is all it took to
suggest that you are – were mine,
but now belong to him or so
you've made him believe.

Cautious glances – preceed the
slamming shut of your soul when
you think of what could have been
if time had not intervened before the words
which meant everything but nothing anymore.

Would it be better if we were fogotten
rather than just gone? - perhaps then
we would not feel every moment
stratified, condensed and fragmented
(somehow) like a dozen first times at once.

You get used to the cold, after a while
a trick of the light is all you've become
or the last gasp of some other world,
at least that's what I tell myself
whenever I'm in the same room as you.

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