WHO IS THIS WOMAN

I cannot write, nothing bleeds of my fingertips

I see a forest coming back to life 

A sparrow singing, perhaps, yelling at me to listen 

But I cannot bring a dead to living, 

write absurd commentaries upon it

I cannot stop remembering what isn't supposed to be

I cannot school myself to happiness 

Who is this woman, I do not know her 

Who is this man, I do not love 

I remember the last time 

I tried to hammer 

something delicate and oh so soft 

It broke in my hands and wailed 

I could not bring myself to nurse it 

Perhaps I have always been this cruel, 

this distant

Perhaps I always make a handsome fool out of me 

I do not know what beckons 

I never heard your voice 

I never embraced you in the clasps of seeing 

I know going and not returning back 

I do not know this becoming, 

this running out of the sky