Words are slipping away from us.
In yellow conversation
when we have run out of things to say.
Or perhaps in the last pages of that cheap romance that you got me for my birthday.
You bought it because you thought the
cover was pretty, like the spaces
between our bodies in crowded buses
where sweat mingles with sweat.
But I lived every word of it.
and I can smell the metal on my hands still, like blood.
For how can you love, without words?
How can I love you, when
the meaning of love is lost in language,
History erased, in backspaces,
When memory is an illusion,
And living, a lie.
Death cannot touch me.
We lived an eternity
In the silence between our breaths.
I will still love in the songs
that you wrote for us.
In the words of dead poets, that I read
and read and read again, till at last I believed
They are more a part of me than perhaps they
ever belonged
to the ones who wrote them.
For to whom do words really belong
When they float in the wind?
Like dead leaves from last autumn.
Like all the times where we almost met and not met each other.
Like the ashes of the postcards that you sent me
that got lost in the wind as they couldn't find where I lived.
I don't have a home anymore.
You will find me,
By the river without a name.