The reason I am writing about you again,
Now, is probably the fact that I will
Never find answers to the questions I keep
Asking every time I write about you.
Maybe because I will always avoid
Asking you in any other way
In case you answer.

Though it might be because I have
Just reread some of your words...
Still so distinctive that it was like
Listening to a ghost talking about
Its life since death.

Some times I still use the odd
You ism that I picked up from you,
Maybe because I hope that somehow
You'll notice and therefore know
That I have never forgotten you,
And I still read your poetry and
Wonder if any of the persons you mention
Are ever me.

Like the one you still write letters to...

There was always something unfinished
About you and I...
Or maybe I should say "unstarted".
Memories are like rumours in that respect...
They make more of events than
They ever shall be.

Though some of your words to me are still
Perfectly readable when I recall them,
And so are some of mine...
Some of the more ridiculous, stupid things
I occasionally think I have grown out of.

And all those gaps in our conversations
Are to me like your gaps in compound words...
Something I will never understand,
No matter how long I sit here and evade sleep,
Thinking I might find another city
Out of my window when I go to
Close the curtains.

I should probably have told you all this
When I still had your ear (to an extent),
But for some reason I waited
Until now to find the words.

10/05/2003

Posted on 10/05/2003
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