We spoke of going to the sea— you would be the wave, I the shore; all wounds would heal in love's current… We spoke, and so I waited, restless for more.
We spoke of binding ourselves in endless love, your heart would know no boundary. That your heart was a crossroads snack cart— this bitter truth was unknown to me.
We spoke of staying together until death, so I call this parting death itself. My heart is the morgue of your corpse— I refuse to drag it to the crematorium shelf.
So many words remain, and so much pain! How suddenly promise-keeping comes to an end! Do people truly vanish, I wonder? No! Where else would they go, then? Tell me—do sorrow or memory ever disappear?