Now


Now we have to get used to things more slow,
to love lost and whatever still remains
to delicate things in autumn skies and the smell of pine
and to what-would-have been-thoughts that we never unlearn.

To almost-nothing, and constantly the same four walls
and to ringing that never sounds,
to staring twenty  times a day through a window
and above all to yourself, the person you have to drink with at night.

And what I have left is nothing,
nothing to give away:
what I still am is me,
only for me.