All the things I was when we were lovers, I have ceased to be.
Your disappointment tortures me. I'm fatter, duller, dedicated,
Mostly, to persisting without drama, also without purpose,
Counting clock beats as I search for churchyards bearing
Empty graves. We're too old to be avant-garde, as we were,
Or we thought we were, in your decrepit walk-up flat. The sea
Is near. I chose this place because I thought you'd like to view
The brooding mountains once again, and stare into the frigid
Water. Silence seems to indicate that we can't think of things
To say. I guess this was a bad idea. The world which we shared
Is gone, and we are shadows of ourselves. The memories I have
Of us were fixed and fine. I should have let them live on,
Undisturbed.