There is vacancy in my
day, O hollow place that is
devoid of its
ghost presence.

Your life's holiday was
your last; you passed me
by like an unseen 
train in the night, the

tremor was there, the
ground of me shook
but I walked on,
mistook it for a phantom

feeling, shrugged it off
and now too late do I
run after you down the
track, your distance a

fast convergence into
another place.  You left 
your blood tracks bearing
in my body journeys

your own spleen -
my skin and hands bear
your characteristics
but your face, your face 

tracked by my tears is
missed.  My lines go
on into new domains -
fresh fields, new

reversals, spinnings
you cannot back-
track to see.

It was one way only
that day, the day you  
left your station
left me.
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