if every story of regret
begin in the motion
that draws us away
even as it brings us closer?
“I don’t need you”
—you write—
where you witness kisses
and call them prison.
“I don’t need you”
—you sing—
“Neither do I”
—I write—
through words that take us away.
It’s the mist that wants,
I lie, desire,
evaporates us into memories
that your warmth will fade away,
dissolving us.
Cold,
—you compose on the glass.
Cold.
What is no longer,
nor will ever be
—written.