SPIRITUAL AI

ENDS BEAUTIFULLY The perfect distance is not a farewell, but when you miss it, the noise gets louder while the distance gets stranger.  How far have you left my silent point? Has it arrived at the most tenuous position, or is it still holding on to the most memorable attachment?  I can no longer guess at the signs, because the poems have been trapped in a vacuum, the buds of words no longer crack on their stalks.  Something is missing, the most flowery season that used to be an antidote to anger, we once bloomed to heal each other, but ended up withering in exchange of sorrow, like a flower that aborts itself and falls to the earth.  Time has stabbed all the beats of our love, until all that's left is a story without a soul, asking to be buried as a memory until it melts away.  Like a poet who calls for a broken heart, the most heartfelt poems are born from the womb of pain. It should be the same for us, similar to poetry; timeless, but ambiguous.  So, from wounds witho