I have heard that you have begun
searching for what you spew
when you run off under the green of happy meadows
looking back only once, to forget.
There were no tears in my eyes
But from my heart, silver sparkles of wet grief
fell into the fade of your hurried steps
You brought me pain when you came
One that I couldn’t speak, only feel
And now you go with more
that I still cannot speak but alas, I write
Primrose, mine never Primrose
You have taken spring from my cheeks.