I've been thinking.

You made your choice.
But maybe I haven't made mine.

And I think there's a time when I'm tired of watching you disappear, time and again.

I've always loved you, but I don't think you know what that means.
Nor how deep this all goes.

Nor how I can't take that back, never mind that I've met others, others who love me better.

Because maybe, just maybe
it's me who can love you best.

1 A.D.


I think there were still candles left alit
when we left our little room
to search for things we wanted
but we both didn't have for each other.

It's been a while and we haven't returned;
it's probably too dark for us to be together again there,
now as you say all the lights are snuffed out,
that we can't go back,
that we forgot matches, and can't spark another start.

You tell me this again and again,
your eyes looking elsewhere, for places
I can't walk to with you.

But
what if things now are different,
that the light didn't die,
that the flame caught a curtain or something,
and burned the house down?

Maybe what we really have left inside
isn't darkness, but soot-stained memories like ash,
stuck to skin, and unwilling to leave.

Or maybe
this fire we have inside
could still be burning, waiting for us
to come back,
stay,
and warm ourselves, arms entwined in embrace.

Let's not put out the fire.
Besides, Dearest,
your kiss alone puts these flames to shame.