_{Si eres de habla hispana, esta versión es para ti 👉 Español.}

The God of Lost Negatives

The fog in London has a certain way
of sketching out your face in every street;
A cruel trick the damp and shadows play,
to make the ghost and passer-by compete.

You are the tea-stain on a map of old,
a stubborn myth I’ve curated with care.
The story of your grace is getting cold,
like unlit hearths and damp October air.

I do not mourn the woman that you are,
(that stranger with a life I’ll never know).
I worship at the altar of the scar,
and keep the wound to watch the memory grow.

For time is but a clumsy, drunken thief
who stole the fruit but couldn't shake the tree;
I’ve built a cathedral out of grief
for the girl you killed by simply leaving me.

I would like to invite my poet friend @silher. Also, thanks to @moeknows for visiting my post.

Dedicated to all those poets who contribute, ** day by day**, to make our planet a better world.