When there is simply

the primal urge

to write,

the desire

without the forms it is wont to come in,

words become

inadequate

and the medium that they travel in

becomes nothing more than a

v____a__________s______________t

UNCONQUERABLE

emptiness.

a tribute to lost love

There was a beginning, not so long ago. But as is wont to happen in stories of love begun, lost, found, and lost again, there is nothing left except the confines of the ending. There is nothing to dwell upon but the finality of the void. And all that is there to recount is the sound of an unreachable sea in the walls of an empty (and alas, it is oh so empty) shell.

Our memories were buried in a nameless grave. And it was the dead, amongst which the casket resided, who bore witness to the regrets. And although we promised not to, the earth atop the site shows that the vestiges of our past had been exhumed and examined. More than once, the handiwork of such a terrible task was not my own. But the violent flow of secrets hidden deep in the earth's core is irrelevant. Who she is, who she was, continues to haunt me in the depths of my desperate soul.

She was the warmth. That much I remember. Of the two seasons I have had in my life. She was the warmth. She was MY warmth. Perhaps that is the only way to describe her. Perhaps this is the way I wish to forget. Through the slow and laboured process of losing the picture of her face and her smile. Through the deliberate unlearning of her touch.

With the reminiscing of our story, the frost of winter has now come at the threshold of my sanctuary. And with its violation upon my essence, I seek the heat of a heart that has long been lost to me. What do the reasons matter? The dates? The times? The names? The mind is not so great that it can hold on to such trifles as these when it is overwhelmed by the one irretrievable fact: She is gone. There is nothing now but a world of twilight and ice.

_ _ _ _ _

. Was it so long ago
when you last held my hand,
stroked my hair,
said my name out loud?

.. Were you so lost to me, not noticing,
when I last searched for you
in a crowd,
in my heart,
in all that I have allowed to define me?

... Was it so painful
That i can't find my way back
to you who does not want me?
and i tread on in an outpouring of "if only's"



This isn't a work of poetry. They're just thoughts. Pipe dreams. Words for someone who will never read them. And if he happens to find his way here, someone who will never understand just how close he got.