Our distance, is not for the world to make
nor for time to sustain, it is this: that we loved,
reluctantly, not allowing to spring what is purest of sorrow, nor confess as it is;
not even night itself can hold the darkness where you lingers, and cars pass me by as if it carries your wishes- the way your eyes unravel my weakness and set in one morning when you slowly slip into ambiguity.
I feel you like a hollow in a row of trees, like a coward and love is the beast,
It is not continuance that free ourselves,
For as the bird learns to depart from the tree, farther away, earned its wings.