Through all the doors, you slipped away from me.
In all the deserts, you left me behind.
At dawn I searched for you, and by noon I lost you.
Wherever I went, you were nowhere.
Who could describe the Sahara of a room without you,
The Sunday crowd where no one resembles you,
A day emptier than the pier stretching into the sea,
The silence where I call for you and you do not answer.
You left me, and yet you remained beside me.
You left me everywhere—you vanished from my eyes,
From the heart of my dreams.
You left me like a sentence cut in half,
Like an object tossed aside, like a chair,
Like a resting place abandoned at summer’s end,
Like a forgotten postcard in a drawer.
Every gesture pulls me farther from you,
Like a leaf falling from a tree.
Your gaze upon me, poor thing,
Was a sigh in which I did not exist.
How did you not feel pity for your own shadow
Standing quietly at your feet?
