i saw her today, again.
i was walking down a street and suddenly felt cold.
at the moment, i knew.
she was sitting in a bench, next to her friends.
they were talking and laughing.
and she...
she seemed so lost,
so far away from all,
so out of my way.
i wanted to talk to her,
tell her that i'm here,
but she seemed to be so in her world,
and, whatever she was feeling,
sadness, emptiness, or loneliness,
it looked true.
and if i'd talked to her,
she would've faken a smile.
and i don't want the living poetry to lie.
YOU ARE READING
insomnia.
Acak«her name was insomnia, and she was the greatest metaphor a poet has ever written.»
