Put me away
somewhere on a hill, with your hand in my hand; I can wash clouds and clean
stars,
Something in
me has been missing for a long time—a vacuum,
I miss the freshness of the air as your smile & the wild sound of flowing rivers & fresh sunlight through my windows & the cloudy sky with hide & seek of the moon & a starry night view with the sound of crickets in the background,
I miss the quietness of night & freshness
of morning,
It seems I
haven't bathed & eaten & slept for months,
I miss the
two of us in deep talk with no one to intrude, no one else listening,
I miss my
privacy with you,
I miss my
closeness with you,
It seems
without you, I am only half-alive,
It seems I
am already dead & my ghost is watching the repeat telecast where he is not
allowed to be what he has been,
It seems we
are living in different dimensions and can see each other but can't be together
like we have been—a separation of worlds dimensionally different,
I am
certainly not alive; I must be a ghost.
This life
with its suffering must be a fiction.
