I don't believe that you are here: I
can still see you from yesterday,
eyes across the blueblack sky: I'm
sick of the change. Go back, back

to the beginning. To the horizon,
where I remind myself that I am
no longer a child; to feel the road
beneath my feet would be running

away three years ago. But today, I
refuse to stop, there is no sleeping
or eating when I cannot see past
what you have done. And to fix

it would be suicide, at least to
them: Cold eyes, warm hands.
But the fire has burnt out, and alas!
There is no more room for me.