Every day
he wrote
the poem, again
with a different ending.

Lies after lies
He kept writing,
for what is not real but imagined.

....and when he runs out of paper
he writes his words across the sky,
in sunlit dreams, too bright to read.

Tracing the lines of his palms
as if to memorize
the prints she left.

She left her teal pashmina
across the bed
along with
a mumbled 'goodbye'
and coldness.

breath by breath
I fill a well of silence,
Water of the soul
from these thunder clouds
trembling with rainbows