My lazy winter days.
A wintry morning,I wake up and know that you are gone.
And I am there with our song of love and strangers,
My evenings destined to be lonely,
My days full of less expectations,
My stories without audience.
Am I sad, think not, sadness is only for the others.
For myself, I am left with languor.
Left to myself, time stands still,
Dreams of tragedy perhaps my favourite pastime.
I sit down by my window, pretending to write to you...
What do I write to you, what can I lie to you?
To say that I miss you is to lie... to say that I don’t is untrue...
To say that I am happy will never be true, cause I am never that...
To say that I am sad will be malicious....
So I don’t write to you... I write to myself... as I always do... I talk to myself, as I always do.... and perhaps will always do...
And you, my dear, are puzzled by me in the meantime.
20.11.02
posted by Bithran @ 8:43 PM
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