Friday, November 28, 2008


Sometimes I think of you and wonder if you’re dead, wonder
if you think of me, or if you stop to consider
writing of your mind, your trajectory. There
are only so many lives, only so many
friends I can stretch my ten fingers towards. The others, like you, fall
to my imagination and I start to tell stories
of make believe with only the smallest
remnant of you. But I do not yet know
the end, my stories run on in the past
and again I think of you and wonder.


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Nice post Stefan. I regret I didn't succeed in meeting you when you were around here in Italy.