I am used to the fact
that you are only a mere picture
on the wall of my room.
It is not important anymore
that I can only stare
at that dry bit of memory,
that I can only look
at those eyes
even if they look back
at another wall.
And as I lie on my bed
trying to grasp that one last frozen smile,
I can only comfort myself
with the thought of you,
gliding back, for a moment,
into my dreams:
a glowing apparition, standing
at the foot of my bed,
your sad gaze blanketing my cold feet.
