The reason why you don’t think of me now is that you have travelled into the future, or is it your past

From which you had suddenly emerged into my life then? You had suddenly brought me to life, my life.

I’d then begun to see things differently, begun to give up the past as though there was little for me in it.

Now our past, present and future have blended into a mystery, an uncertainty of which is which?

Time is now difficult to pass. I constantly need escapes into writing, into music, into the worlds of art.

To try to find you there, in your near absence from my life. I write stories, plays, even long novels

Trying to find you, discover where you could’ve gone, or where your mind is when your body is with me.

But art is art, a poor substitute for life, a life rich, laden with you, very near, there by my side.