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There are people who die
And those who disappear
From my life
I wonder which you are, even though
It does not change a thing.
Either way, you’re gone

But to know that you were safe, but out of reach
To know that you were happy, but unavailable
To know that you were sheltered, but secluded
Would console me as I suffer from uncertainty
The question whether you are
Dead or only missing
Only absent or no longer living
Returning again and again like a strange kind of religion
A prayer of worry, a mantra of disbelief
The precognition I must lose you again
Right now, or sometime in the near future
But detachedly, like the mime players
In a world of imagination in which we get to say