It always turns into a poem, it must mean, mustn’t it, that there is something else within, anyway, for now, I’m trying to write about something strange, something far from known before, or not even half understood, some strange feeling.
It’s not anger, and it’s not loss; there is a deal of not living up to reality, there is a deal of keeping your image alive, but it is not yet, at least I hope, not yet an infatuation.
And that’s the thing that scares me, in this what is almost calm serenity; do I risk rolling over to an hungry infatuation, do I risk that, by keeping your image alive.
By using you for my poetry, for writing down and remembering, I’m seeing you each evening, and taking you to my dreams, do I risk an hungry infatuation, that will eat me, eat me half alive.
Or is this path truly more cathartic, is it a passage towards a closure, will this calm feeling of now grow into something stronger, bringing me, giving me, without you forever, leaving me, giving me new hope.
