If you see her, tell her that I no longer write about her,
that my pen has forgotten her name.
That though I continue to read tirelessly,
I am a ghost writer, empty of inspiration.
Tell her that her favourite poet,
the one who earlier confessed to me to have
his heart broken in two, three, four,
no longer beats with the same fierceness.
It no longer feels that overflowing passion,
that longing to capture her beauty in letters.
Tell him that my heart is no longer his dwelling place,
That her memory has faded away.
If you see her, let her know I'm still alive,
but my heart is no longer the same.
It is a wandering heart that has forgotten its name,
and beats only by inertia, without reason.
