You cannot hold a person down,
a person leaves.
You left.
I had nothing left to say.
I stand bewildered, thinking—
all those moments we had, none of them...
endure.
That strange enchantment in your eyes
that consumed me ceaselessly—
it turned out not to be as faithful as waiting.
The pity in your touch, once meant for me,
will perhaps never become love.
How easily things shatter into pieces,
how your careful hands
stopped guarding my feelings—
this truth...my insides
refuse to accept it.
You spoke to me just once today...
after so many days.
Do you know how close I've come to you?
You could never imagine!
Today I discovered—
the letters of my feelings...
are not as helpless as I am.
# The Letters Alone Remained What stayed behind were only letters— traces on paper, black strokes swimming in white. The body gone, the breath that shaped them gone, the hand that curved and crossed them gone. Only letters. Patient, mute, exact. They do not tremble with what was meant. They do not blush or turn away. They sit in their neat rows like soldiers who have lost their war, holding their ground with no one left to hold it for. We come to them as pilgrims come to stone, pressing our palms against cold surfaces, trying to warm them back to speech. But letters are loyal only to themselves— to the space between one mark and another, to the silence that refuses to sing. What stayed behind were only letters. Not love. Not even longing. Just the shape of it. The skeleton of sound. The beautiful, brutal aftermath of voice.
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