No, I don't write about you.

She was a flower,
And he was her sunlight.

She needed him,
More than anyone else did.

Without her sunlight,
The sunlight she needed, she would die.

Yet too much love from him,
Could make her heart turn dry.

Am I that hard to love?

You are the poem that breathes.

The roses had wilt
The bridges we built
Shattered with blood and tears
Of antagonism and of our fears

Yet at midnight I caught myself
Half-awake collecting the ashes
Driven away by melancholy,
Shadows of your light abruptly vanishes

You, you are still on my memory
Vivid and colorful, I discern the hue
Of the all the photographs we never took
And the empty frames hanging by a hook

I had spent a couple of nights
Listening to your silence
I had made the sea turn red
Sinking to your fretful calmness.

Nostalgic is the place!

The smell of burnt hair
The rumbling silence
The carpeted floor
The taste of dust
The furniture, all in plum

It is the forgotten place!**

Where she used to write
Where she used to weep
Where they revealed their cores
And where they uttered their goodbyes