Private Waste Land.

No, don't chase. You will find a labyrinth, and within it only that which will leave you breathless and broken. So don't chase, don't follow. It is gone, away and has drifted past its prime into peace. Time weaves its long, sinewy self around these places to clean for new stories, dust and dust and dust for a new present. So don't chase.
Those letters are long burnt out, the ashes lost beyond any meaning and we are standing here anew, but only just strangers. Look into these eyes, there is so much. So much, except for the mirrors we used to find and cherish. We are strangers, so don't chase.
It is bitter to recall. So I will not. Bitter to think of the tainted. So I will not, because this is not the taste I desire. This is not what love has taught me. What love, however? Which one? I cannot remember, cannot summon up those memoirs. Perhaps because they were purely imagined?
So don't chase.
There is nothing to find.

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.