Waves

It's too early to forget you,
it will always be too soon.
The second transit overflows
with you so thoroughly
that only emptiness remains possible.

My home is built upon you,
the walls, the windows, the hues.
The days and nights that dwell beside me
exist for your memory.
There is no present without your hands,
only monotonous rhythms
that lull melancholy to sleep.

It is too early to forget you,
it will always be too soon,
your absence unmakes and remakes me,
without you until the sea's roar becomes foreign
and a vast emptiness collapses over me
drowned in the waves.