I loved you
the way old cities love the rain.
Not because it washes away the filth,
but because it reminds them
of what is already falling apart.

You arrived in my life
carrying sunlight
in the pockets of your silence.
And for a while,
I mistook that warmth to be eternal.
That is the oldest mistake
that the heart makes.

All the mystics say
that every soul is searching for its core.
The drunks at the time of closing say
that everyone eventually goes.
I have sat with both the camps,
and found that the world is quite grey.

Sometimes,
you seem unreal.
Not a person at all,
but a door
that the universe opened,
briefly,
to show me another vault
inside myself.
Then that door closed.
Not cruelly.
Just the way seasons do.
Before we can realise.

I remember your laughter.
It wandered through the apartment,
like a stray cat
that never belongs to anyone.

The rooms are clean now,
the dishes are done,
and loneliness sits at the table
wearing your sweet perfume.

Some nights
I speak your name
into the dark,
just to hear something beautiful
break.

I hold no regret.
How could I?
For the moon loses itself
in every river it touches with its light.
And the river loses the moon.
But they both continue to go on.
And so do we.

Love taught me that
we are not here to possess each other.
We are just here to witness.
To place our trembling hands,
together,
for a brief moment,
till it passes away.

The train leaves.
The wine runs out.
The years gather like dust
on the windowsill.
A part of me kneels
to the memory of your eyes,
grateful at the absence,
for proving
that there was once
a presence worth mourning.