Fog

Time does not redeem absences,
though today claims to be absolute.
Nothing can be revived in the now.
In murky brown, the eyes of
who you were grow dim,
it could have been and has been.

I cannot reclaim the scent of
my secret garden. Today the grass
thickens the walls, more powerful and grey
than their cement.
I cannot call you back in this moment,
nor in my dreams, even if
a white—always—paints the streets of a
constant, ever-shedding city.

I am no longer who I was,
pain has opened other wounds and my dream of hope
repaints my poetry in fresh hues.

I went, but I am not,
and in my dreams,
I remember who you were, but you left yesterday
and no one waits for me today.