Perhaps, a veil made of the evidences, that gave me away;
To be reclaimed by your dissonance, pregnant with a calm;
And be a prisoner to the mystery which makes up your heart;
Me, an endless today betrothed to your strange eventuality;
You an ageless tug, a tomorrow after the time ceases to be;
A book by shape only, turned otherwise to a tiny slab of dust;
On your bookshelf, also must be lying, trapped in remission;
Memory, a darkness , passionately incubating all the dreams;
The long silent pauses, illuminations, blackout with an abandon;
Perverse strings of a million spaces and of the millions of faces;
Disappearing into a dot, lonely and pointless, vanquished;
Such a posit of wish-less devotion, your memory, my absolution;
Memory, that props up as a wall of separation, only to become;
The very path, that puts us up in unison, an echo unto the void;
Patience of our shame, witness to the desecration of insularity;
A shade of cold light embracing the shadow of sanguine darkness;
Life not even an existence, only odd presence, mere absence of us;
