I would write you something beautiful,
raindrops set to music,
but I can't any more.
When I try to imagine a feeling,
it no longer works.
Am I broken?
Can I no longer feel?
Has the loneliness of all these years emptied me out?
I see no embrace.
I feel no want for a kiss.
I cannot imagine any intimacy.
I would only work,
do what has to be done.
Cleaning, preparing food, staring at the garden,
watching the harvestmen,
smiling at my plants,
being glad of the rain,
waiting for the night.
I do not speak for days.
I miss you like spring,
which is gone by June.
It is like something one must always wait for,
and when it is here, it hides,
so that one has to wait again.
And by the time you play this through with it
again and again,
you will be wrinkled,
and you will die of it,
as of every love
that caused too much pain.
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