Beyond the cracks of nostalgia,
your poetry is a repetition of ‘I’, ‘you’ and ‘me’,
always worried, distant, anxious,
savoring on lost moments of confusion
in the distance of thoughts, deluded pleasures
bound in misfit conversations.
Here, I say that you were ‘found’
by the passage of morose fixations,
but ‘you’ can never sense or see where ‘I’ come from,
even with time,
you only repeat my convictions.
And ‘I’ seek my sanity in the profanity of words,
each syllable elongated to fit your truce.
‘I’ will cut through questions and answer with silence.