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.

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