“L’amour est la poésie des sens” -Honoré de Balzac. This is how a fiction turns to prose then to poetry, when a love expressed becomes an ephemeral word to a mind that sojourns elsewhere. This has nothing to do with Depeche Mode.
HOW could silence be this noisy…
Speaking in tongues that my heart refuses to comprehend lest it is wounded
by the sharpness of its nothingness?
HOW could darkness be so blinding, so finite, so visually chaotic
with memories upon memories neither built nor shared
from present or past
but from the absence of your consent?
HOW could thoughts be so linear, so temporary
for a mind that wants to forget
every detail of your face, etched by my amazement
of you being there…
This is a fiction (turned prose, then poetry).