we disappear.
but I repeat myself. I've said
it so many times
before,
with the same words, but
arranged in a different order.
the field is empty.
those once loved, or almost
love have wandered
away,
into the woods, into the sea.
they have
gone,
faded into shadows, into fog, into
ghosts,
transparent in the haze.
they have gone away.
not a word spoken, not a word
written,
not even a look
backwards to meet your eyes,
not even a wave.
nothing left behind.
what's done is done.
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