sometimes i believed that love alone
could make it work, like silent, tenacious
spreading of an emerald moss, the greening
of a grey heart.

i'm not sure if what i heard was you
calling my name because
i was so busy calling yours
as if calling is possessing
and each time i breathed your name
i was eager for attachment

as if my mouthing of your name
seemed to say, why is it never clearly mine?
why have we met so late?
why do you appear in my irresolute heart?

in the overlapping of love and departure
in the drowsiness of dream and waking,
a mistake of falling into someone else's heart
also becomes their error.
is it 'forever'?
is it the possessive pronoun 'yours'?

is it existentialism, or lao tzu, or
chang tzu, afternoon tea,
or a couple of borrowed verses?