It is not fair
That I loved her
A waif, unloved
Too young and too lost
Lost as I was
Young as I was not
Even at my youth
She was lost and young
And what was left
Was anguish
But I drained that cup
And regret
This century
A thousand years
That millennium
About which I wrote
Might be all lies
As she would tell
Filled with regret
I cannot regret
A moment of it
And I will miss every moment
Of that which is gone
I mourn it all
May it be
A sunrise of joy
After all this morning
And the star
That I wrote long ago
Is fallen
Paper Screams 
Well, young waifs. Maybe we do have something in common. Besides God, I mean.
Wasn’t the first thing that I thought of being in common. But some similarity. Might go on to include further, eventually. Your work covers substantial ground to which I relate.
I published the English of my second meth bender, by the way.
I read it. Somehow email figured that out for me. I’m still digesting, mostly. Powerful stuff.