I remember you're gone, still something

reminds me of you, the way music runs

out, you seemed to fall but you'd a silly

laugh in every stance, running behind

every bush, til' I couldn't notice your presence.

But what were those words? It drips fire

Now, I don't remember lilacs and spring.

Neither the voices, weaving, looming

in a rich much, I do see you, I do feel you

when a ghost of chasm grasped my veins,

a twinkling flame in blue eyes, who are you?

perhaps, perhaps I don't know you, I don't

remember your ghost, but the city dissolved

in a sea, I hear thousand screams—

Were you there? Are you there?

I walk back on the shoreline, to find out

the truth of symbols, "Wait, wait! Where are you going?"

"I don't know," I mean I don't know how to answer.

He spoke, he spoke but those symbols sound

so foreign now, I shook my head in denials—

I mean, what to say? Sunlight, work, moonlit, pain, sleep again?

I should go back to the place, where the

music plays before you, perhaps, perhaps

I'll see the desperate voices in singing

gloom, or foolish waves in a dancing lure?

But I can't hear you, you can't see me,

perhaps that's the only way we connect,

getting means of no means.

— 18th February, 2024