I would love to write to you again,
Though I cannot remember
Writing to you the first time, perhaps
The pen only reached the paper
In my imagination.

But what to say? After so long,
I would not know where to start,
So I would delay the decision by
Writing about “pompous” and
“Sinister” and other words I like
But seldom get to use.

This is just like old times:
Staying up for you and saying
Nothing, only I have used fewer
Words tonight; and finding the fiction
In your writing again, like dreaming
Of a familiar city looking
Completely alien to me.

There is expression. There is adulation.
There is imitation. There is criticism;
The same breed as that which once
Hunted me, perhaps even from the
Same pack, remembering the scent
Of your blood.

Come the morning, this will be
Absurd again, but for now
Your life fascinates me again,
Although this time I do not
Presume to call it “love”.
This I think of as nostalgia,
And speculation about what I cannot
Honestly believe might have been.

I almost thought that my
Naivety outlasted your grip on my life,
But I am still driven to insomnia
Wondering who you are.

04/04/2006

Posted on 04/12/2006
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