In another language,
another lifetime,
in another place,
if I were someone else and not me
I would be able to find the words that mean
homesick for an idea.
Homesick for the remembrance
of something lost.
I would be able to weave together
something that made sense enough
that the world would comprehend
the sense of profound loss,
the need unfulfilled.
Hollow and delicate,
breathing in and breathing out,
never letting on
there is a moment that has ruined all,
because it inspired an ache
that cannot be soothed,
cannot be unmade
once it is created,
and now there is a hole,
a void,
an empty place
in the shape of a man that never was,
and the way his heart was made to love.

Talk back to me. Trust me; I'm listening.

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