“This is a dream, isn’t it? ”
She said, without fascination
And it bothered me
My waters are shaken still
The trenches sputter disdain;
She is tired of this rendezvous.
I cupped her face
To tell her things
But her eyes are closed
Her lips sealed shut
Only the distance talks
But not so much a talking.
Her hair lost its flair
And I wander over her
Poetry, her riddles.
And that is when
The silence becomes
So loud in this dire death
Or perhaps
I didn’t lose her
In this stalemate
I’m waiting
Waiting, endlessly
Waiting.
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