And even if I can’t remember your skin and your falling eyes
i still find the epilogue of your moments strumming inside my uneven skull.
I was never meant to be finished with you…but strangely I did,
now I just sit in a chair all through the days of passing people and I write poems of no meanings and no spines.
If you want to go by rules then you have to recover from one; to go into the illusion of two…
I am impenetrable as the shadows of a log for the two…
I have seen fighters ripping off their band-aids like evenings take away lights and dust from a pale city…
I am no fighter and I have no roots to be a shrub,
but somehow I am still remembered being within you and without me.
Don’t come again, don’t give me the infinity of idleness with your carefully parted lips…
Don’t take my immunity from your shackles of green Oasis.
I have chosen grief over nothing…let it be that way.

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Photograph: Ernestine Ruben.