I am native to that place where troubles intersect.
While you live to read the Cosmos news about something to do with superior intellect.
Again, the sun swelters with summer heat that dries mornings-silver dew.
Like illusive residues of that perished love, we once knew.
My bewilderment travails in each of my wrinkled prose.
Without love, I am a heart crinkled as if withered a rose.
I think about the short arch of time that mated us.
Now in my unusual nights, times argument is for itself.
For there are no stars of fate left or tarot cards to be dealt.
I cannot live as a man half-faded and surreptitious.
You went your way.
A way you preferred.
Yet, inside of me I feel a cold hand play.
My adversary is all the emotions you stirred.
Although the words you read do not say.
How a woman's love grew cold.
Or, why the young grow old.
The stars will not tell you.
Those books have answers few.
Alas if our love only knew the way.
Although, you went, you are never far away.
Only as far as my imagination or as close as the farthest galaxy.
You went your way.
The way you embraced.
You went to stay.
While I journey in sorrowful regret for what you replaced.