He who thought she was made of words...

He who thought she was made of words
Finds a book the day they part.

Fresh, crisp pages
Like springtime leaves,
Without reminiscence
Or need for strings.

Not flesh, nor blood
No tears, no heart
Nerves, hormones,
Feelings, fears
Wasnt she words
Just endless words.

The scent of her body
Contours of soul
Her mind, those rooms
Her parts, her whole
Landscapes of distance
Troughs, and crests
Horizons he knew
Sunrises and sets
The crevices ... crevasse
And, the rest.

...

All felt and found
In one other page
Of a book, or a soul
He desired to take.

He who thought she was made of words...
Lost nothing ; the day he chose to part.

Mirage

Silence was the longest letter I wrote to you.

Years passing by
Sitting quietly beside the river
That flowed alongside me
Without your love.

Your favourite endings
Will stay beautiful with me
Will paint them in yellow and blue
And maybe little greens in between.
Where we touched.

Gave you all, everything
Always
Without promises
But every time
You pick only an ending
And leave before dawn breaks.

All is fine.
Just these tears keep flowing
Back to the river
Do you see a ripple
Do you hear silence
Do you feel my love

Like I feel forever fragrant in yours.