long after all the daisies are plucked

there is still a long way
to go, before i call it quits
from vestiges of your memory
in sleep and wake times alike
you have moved on
letting the space between us
fill like charcoal-grey dust
of a smoggy afternoon,
i can't see through the haze
even after all these years
of longing and want
diluted by the chisel of
time and weariness...
to me, you exist as a phantasm
too careful to be touched
or refreshed in conversation
with friends, only recurring
as some dried husk of feeling
from an age long past recall.
i let my mind denude your
touch with bouts of
nervous laughter.