Again, the old man
says, it's better to leave than
to be left without
 
choice, that heartbreak hurts
so much worse, the old man says,
frowning, than choosing
 
alone with self-doubt,
the old man says, gloomier,
—and then starts, at length,
 
second guessing his
own wisdom, having left the
opposite outlook
 
of hope, rather than
hope having left him; packed, he
leaves me; I'm thankful.
 
Here I remain still.
There’s an imaginary
isle named Novania

I tell myself you've
gone to: happy, by the sea,
and unreachable.