Do the lovers know
that when they whisper these poems
they are commemorating our love?
Do they ever think of you and me
or only of themselves?
Do they know that I once found
a strand of your hair
and wore it around my neck
like a necklace?
That I kiss your hands
more than I kiss your lips?
Do they realise that our love
and their love
are drops in the universe’s ocean of love
and that without any of these drops,
the ocean would be
less?

Gray.
The overcast skies had the colour of deadened stones, and seemed closer than usually, as though they were phlegmatically observing my every movement with their apathetic emptily blue-less eyes; each tiny drop of hazy rain drifting around resembled transparent molten steel, the pavement looked like it was about to burst into disconsolate tears, even the air itself was gray, so ultimate and ubiquitous that colour was everywhere around me.
Gray…