The Book of Weston

I left you in your wasteland.

I feel it still, the blinding dust

of that valley we wandered

six desperate years.

I fled, found a shelter in the hills,

but your sorrow follows me like thunder

undying, even when you want to,

even when you beg for it. Your pain

echoes through the chambers of my heart,

off the contours of my new life.

I try to call back, make myself a beacon,

but the dark winds distort my voice.

The wasteland has you claimed.

Sometimes I believe the echoes

are the only part of you that lives,

and if I walked into that storm to find you,

all I'd find would be a you-shaped cloud:

swirling, drifting apart, your wish fulfilled.