I see you when I look behind the walls:
the sun and words,
the lasting feeling of the wrong.
You smile.
I am drowning in the rules and wants of past.
The fear, as a coward ghost
relying on my back,
compresses thoughts
of love and warmth,
of days that could fill wholes of loss
that both of us possess.

I feel you when I'm stuck in thoughts:
the dialogues and songs,
the bitter feeling of the right.
Who's wrong?

The constitution of the heart?
The nature of the human's plot?
Addicting sight, or dimming light?
Polled thought.

Regret has virtues that line close
to moral use and frugal truth
of who we are when we make choice,
and what we stand when lights are on.

Anastasia Tara

March 7, 2017