With the nails of the passing hours
I peel your presence
Remove your fibers
That only let a few filaments clinging to my synapses
You don't sizzle anymore where I have waited
I hardly believe it
In this strange deafness
That tones down even the protest of absence
The space isn't empty
But it is mute
Maybe I lose you
I'm afraid
In all its lack of substance, maybe
Forgetting is like a slow death

June 2016