To admit that you’re gone.
To admit that you have disappeared
To admit that you will never return… ever.

Is to admit this absence within me.
Is to admit this silence over me.
Is to admit this space around me.

How does the sand feels after the waves retreat?
How does the twig feel after the wind has died down?
How does the riverbed feel after the stream has melted into the earth?

Ah, the earth who has all our whispers.
Ah, the earth who has all our footsteps.
Ah, the earth who has all our decaying bodies.

Gone, radio-silence, gone.
Gone, ghosting, gone.
Gone, dead, gone.

Gone.
and now what?

Don’t ask me where I am.
Don’t come to my doorstep.
Don’t bang at my door.

I’m gone too.

Where to?
The owl asks deep in the night.

Where to?
The wind howlers at dawn.

Where to?
The blue tit twirps in the afternoon.

Where to? How to? How come?

This poem wasn’t supposed to finish this way.
This song wasn’t supposed to fade this way.
The summer wasn’t supposed to patter off this way.

Not this way.

But I do not command the wind.
But I do not command the clouds.
But I do not command destiny.

There’s was once a fool that believed that…

she could follow a dream vision.
she could conjure up a lover.
she could use telepathy to send her poems.

and secure what wasn’t for her.
and create a perfect scenario for reality.
and bring back the one who didn’t belong to her.

What happened to that girl?

Follow that winding path,
Cross that drying brooke.
Climb that rocky hill.

and maybe you’ll find….

That fading and ethereal wise woman.
That rusty and ruddy wild witch.
That tangled and brawny wood fairy.

Let me warn you…

she only answers the call of the robin.
she only opens her window late at night.
she only opens her door for the wild creatures.

For a clump of violets,
A trickle of rose essence,
And a feather,

She might let you sit by her glowing hearth.
She might listen to the whispers of your heart.
She might let you find healing for all your hurts.

But don’t ask her where she is.
Don’t.

Lest she flies off.