My mornings are so different from yours.
Yours have retreating clouds as the summer sets in.
Here, the clouds are all over with monsoor showers hitting those closed windows.

Your afternoons are sad, perhaps quiet and relaxed.
Mine are angry- with the thought of a missed morning. Should I have started the day differently?
I should have gone to her perhaps whilst she waited with open arms.
Instead, I chose not to know that I had a choice and let those hours go, drowning all that could be.

In your evenings, the fragrance of her hair lingers.
You say 'love is so short, forgetting so long'.
I yet do not know where my evening house would be, or where I will build it, or would it be like it had been so far - quiet on the outside and a storm that crumbles every possible way out - with no ships left to board. My love for despair is long and unforgiving. 

It's not what you say Pablo, it's how you make me feel even though you've gone. The only thing we share is our love for white hills and white valleys.


Xxx


In honour of Pablo Nedura.