If I speak, it is to complain how her shadow no longer casts itself on my eyelids, how my sleep is starved of dreams, how my poems are as vacant and faceless as the refugees huddled in the suburbs of love, how the words live in squalor and misery, how longing for them makes me feel so useless and incapable. When I reach out to grasp them, all I bring back is a handful of empty air.
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