Indeed the emptiness of not knowing what to write,
The stress of being unable to find the inspiration,
The muse escapes me,
And I go back to my . . . I don’t know what to call him.
Something, because he is something, to occupy my mind.

He has stopped being a person in my mind, he is not an individual.
He is just a thought, a memory, a fall back.
Alone and, let’s face it bored I come back to him.
Life is a circle or a cycle.

He is at the beginning and at the end,
He is everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
He is not everything though, nor is he nothing.

Then the flicker of hope,
Like the moonlight through my window,
And I smile at the futility of hope.

The futility of hope,
The cruel and wasteland that is reality,
But yet, I cannot let go of hope.

Hopes and dreams are what keep us alive.
How . . . mundane.
How. . . stereotypical.

And yet, knowing the impossibility of it all I smiled.
Smile when I see him.
Smile when I hear him.
Smile when I think of him.

Smile at my ray of moonlight,
Just as evasive,
Just as surreal.

As the moonlight is only a reflection of the sunlight,
As the moon is cold and the sun is warm,
As the moon is always half hidden.

Yet, I love the moon shrouded in mystery
Yet, I love the silver moonlight
Yet, I love the way I feel because of him

Him, who doesn’t know,
Him, who will never know,
Him, my hope.


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