This angst of mine matters not.
It's only a melancholic wish for long ago days.
And a faint scent of your perfume.
That everyone eventually dies,
that life is too brutal to wish to endure,
that you shall never again ache for me,
regardless of how intensely I ache for you.
That you will no longer allow yourself
to feel what you once felt for me.
Because it wasn't practical and realistic
enough for you and your incredulous heart?
It does not matter...
I am reasonable..
I can neither demand
your passion nor your loyalty.
If I am to blame for being so
devoted to you.
What are my words worth to you
if your incredulous heart is closed to them?
What are my caresses worth,
if you forsake them,
in favor of someone else's,
perhaps because,
they were too intensely loving?
If this angst of mine
is nothing more than
the shadow of your past
relentless obsession for me.
- Already forgotten by you-
Nothing more than the faint scent
of your perfume, neath my nostrils.
Can't you see that it
doesn't matter anymore?
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