As an author

these sleepless nights,
these pauses in destiny,
these drifting days — I dedicate them
all to you, with all the death
they contain within.
‌‎
every piece of memory
pierces me;
a moment
without your memories
pains me.
‎
I suffer your suffering,
but where are you roaming?
‌‎
I feel you as though
you’re thousands worlds
away,
on a ship set to sail
in an ocean of no return.
‌‎
this feels like a sin,
a grievous crime —
this idea that in
other worlds
you may have been.
‎ ‎
for the pure image
we dreamt of,
snow is now
like a blemished slime,
cherry blossom like a fetid fen.
‌‎
nothing, from this realm —
or any realm
in the spectrum of life’s
colorful cosmos
can bring solace to me.
‌‎ ‎
when the day of reckoning comes,
you’ll come to bear
the burden of your mistake;
counting every sleepless hour,
you’ll know how young I died.
‌‎
in my sleepless nights,
in my day’s wanderings,
I hear your whispers
I hear your steps,
as if we have met again…
‌‎ ‎
you’ve become an abstraction,
devoid of scent and stain,
divorced from sanity,
shrouded in meat
and human skin.
‌‎ ‎
now to escape
this endless delirium,
this heart’s dolorous wailing,
I’ll have to believe in
my delusion’s lie…
‌‎ ‎
I’ll say,
you were a character
from one of my recent novels,
a figment of my imagination,
in an alternate world;

and I will tell myself
that by giving you your freedom,
I, as an author,
have killed you.