by Adisa Bašić

He’s gone and gone and gone.
His smell evanesced from the clothes in the wardrobe.
Kids think they remember him.

Long hath he lain here before thee
And after thee
Long shall he lie ...

Underneath a virgin patch of grass.
Underneath a layer of leaves.

He’s gone and gone and gone.
And you wake over a shriveled memory.
His likeness: a pressed flower.

Profusely we praise your dignity.
You’re the love we dream of.
You’re the loyalty we wish for.
You’re the picture that fits our frame.

And he’s gone.
And gone.
And gone.

Nobody hears the night.
You bite your hands till you bleed.
Put fingers into yourself.
Bang your head on the headboard.

In your lonely bed, you know:
you don’t remember him.

Last updated December 05, 2022