For the stolen word can relieve one

to say
how one lives
in a world
without love

If you think about it: love is only a word

created in the space where language fails
like a hammer that misses the nail,

when we are so sure we would hit the mark,
that with passion's blind conviction we embark

on a quest as if it were our doom,
and as the hammer falls from much ado--

our words miss and left hanging
crestfallen
we reach back longing
to where this err was begotten
but alas
what to say
but that it's done with.

When one is left and when the other is gone

I have everything
To say but
Nothing for my
Heart's appeal
For I can
only wish but
Not will the
Success of any
Attempt to succeed.

I can confess
And perhaps mend
That hope to
One day recover
What was lost
In the brief
Span of time
Spent with thee.

But all acts
Are left unsayable
And I can
Only stare where
thou once were

At that faded
Trace of the
Shadow of a
Face a glow
Like a flare
On a winter
Night the warm
Light dispersing on
Cold white breath
And my hand
Reaching out to
The pellucid sky
As if angels
Were meant to
Answer but alas
Why do I
Waste my spirit
On a wish
For thou's return
When I can
Be somewhere else
Besides from here

Wrestling with desire
To purge whatever
Pain I still
Bear I can
Abandon that concern
Which here shows
In this cowardly

Dare of writing
Notes that you
Will never read

However if you
Do read these
Words do nothing
But forget and
Run back from
Whence you came
And think no
More of me.