The loss of
your love has crippled me.
I remember
those moonlit walks, those
tragically brilliantly
lit evenings when the sky was
a tapestry
of colours I did not know the names of, those
silent
nights when all that could be heard
were our
sighs. I miss you and so, every night
I try to
forget myself, getting drunk
with a grim
determination.
And writing
instant poetry, seventeen lines
that
describe my grief, three outlining the joy we never had, two
longing for
what could have been; eleven the tragic
after
effects and one reserved for the future. Your love
made me
into a poet. And now, all I have is
characterless
poems.
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