Tonight I have been drinking,
without pause,
glass after glass.
I cannot touch her.
Forty-five years stand between us—
a mountain no one can cross.
My lips ache
for her cheek,
yet they must remain
where longing cannot follow.
So I love her
in silence.
She is here beside me,
her breath
against my face,
yet I cannot hold her hand,
cannot thread my fingers
through hers.
I know
my death would break her.
That is why I pray
for a long life—
not for myself,
but for her.
Tonight,
unable to bear
the distance between us,
I drink until dawn,
until tears and wine
become indistinguishable.
She speaks
only the language of flowers.
Somewhere,
forever,
Van Gogh
is cutting off his ear.
I am writing these lines,
each word
opening
like a wound.
An old lover,
still burning,
watching
the opposite shore.