Between that old world and now
lies an intangible half-truth
of apparent idyll in muted tones
captured in soft focus
so we didn’t have to let them go.

Those welcome days were real
Enough
that I could once feel
their warm shadows
and hold them close.

In lonely desperation,
I grasp those threads of silk
I run with bursting lungs
to touch that love again.

Every fibre screaming, still
my soul allows
just a whisper to escape
And in my heart I know
they won’t hear me.

I’m spellbound to their secrets, torn
even as cold facts dilute
what’s left of the story.

Now I possess the pieces
I can’t unlearn this truth
So I turn my will to face
the agony
of letting go.

Photo: shamaasa, Creative Commons.