I could almost smell
the vast, collective air
and the happy mood upon it.
I could almost taste
the subtle tang of sea
and olive grove wafting.
There, where you were.
How was I transported?
How shredded from my space
and latticed to your time?
This is not sanity.
This was not expected:
a sudden rush of tears,
a funereal silvering,
a hot mercurial mourning.
I adore the very ground
that holds the echo
of your footsteps.
I adore the very air,
quivering like harp strings
when you speak.
Before you were born,
I sought you in moonless nights.
I loved with patient passion,
sundered into dreams.
But now the days are drying
into dead sea fissures,
where hope and passion
leak into this evening.
This weeping is
a convulsion of years,
while these words are
a subtler catharsis.
And you will never know.
And you should never know.
And you will live your life.
And I have spilt my tears.
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