Dried,
and crushed into rage...

When a long novel
is signed in misfortune...

...About the humid weather
and the foggy mountain...

A cold shoulder and impassive face.
You were in some dry northern town...

You shall never see yourself between the lines,
or your silhouette against my poetry...

As I learned the taste of warmth again
you come out of sudden striking like lightening...

Something in your words stands out,
whether pushed into low punctuation...

Now that the storm has settled,
I walk back along the trail...

I who have always found ways to escape,
skilled at filling gaps and stitching...

From the recurring sun
that shuns my distress...

If not about the ruins
that linger at the surface...

I no longer wear my heart on my sleeve,
holding my feelings at the edge of my tongue...