Ten thousand nights I have wept your absence,
and ten thousand more, for the wound of your love.
A thousand poems have bled from my soul
for a glimpse of heaven beside your light.

I no longer know how to let go of what I feel.
I no longer know how to cry—unless it’s for you.
I no longer know how to love—unless it’s you.
I no longer know how to write—unless your shadow
quivers at the edge of every verse.

And I no longer know what hell awaits me
for this love that won’t forget,
that won’t die,
that burns me still—
like a god without a shrine.