I know you're not waiting for me.  
I know, as you know
that winter doesn't ask permission
to freeze the flowers.

And yet,
in some absurd corner of the chest,
something insists on growing towards you,
like those stubborn vines
that climb the walls
of empty houses.

Dream.  
Night after night,
my soul spells your name
in Morse,
while reason repeats to me
-like a broken record-
what I already know:
that you left,
that trains don't go backwards,
that our future
is just a map
devoured by the rain.

My lucid mind
-that traitor-
orders me to let you go.  
But the heart
is an old dog
that curls up in your forgotten jacket,
to wait.

If you're happy,
should be enough for me.  
But nights are long
and in my uninhabited bed
even silence
molda your absence.

Dreams are now
carnivorous:
devour my calm,
spit your face.  
I fall asleep to escape,
but awake
is when I fall
into your trap of bars:
those memories that do not rust.

My heart,
that fool,
wants to pack my bags
and chase you to the horizon.  
But your life
-that express without brakes-
already ripped from my platform,
and only left me
the stinging
of your steam.

Let me dream you,
at least between the lines.  
Here, in this poem,
I can still cry out to you:
"Why are you leaving?"
even if the answer
is a gray fungus
on the lips of time.

Mel Zalewsky.