There’s a poem by Sappho;
I read it once.
She talks about her lover leaving.
Like clutching harder and harder
On the blade cutting into your hand.
Like the coldest winter day
Beauty in the eye and your lungs freezing.
Like the tsunami charging in
The rush of power and the loss of hope.
Like the whisper through the lines;
The things unsaid, the things never to be said.
I’d like to send it to you,
I can’t remember the title,
and I can’t find it again.
It’s out of reach