This Is Neither Song Nor Poem

This is no song,

no ballad,

no poem written by a poet,

no words left behind by a writer.

It is only a belief

in something that once happened,

something that belongs to the past.

There are no distant mountains

to disappear into,

no dreams woven from clouds.

Only a wish,

fallen before its time.

No one says, “I love you” here.

No matter how far you go,

I still call you close.

No one reaches out to touch me.

No one smiles and asks,

“Will you ever find someone like me?”

There are only questions here,

one after another,

until even the questions begin to fade.

And slowly,

so slowly,

it becomes a way of disappearing.

Here, I am trapped

inside the prison of a past

I cannot return to.

Beyond the distant window,

reality waits,

but somehow,

it has already left me behind.

Look at that mountain peak.

How terribly alone it stands.

And yet,

through the long night,

every star in the sky

keeps it company.

Perhaps that is all this is.

No song.

No poem.

Just me,

sitting here,

still writing.

Let the days pass.

Let the question remain unanswered.

Let this riddle

take its time.