I’m still writing villanelles for the dead,
for the people with useless eyes.
If only I could write for you instead.

I let them live inside my head
and somehow they speak of my demise.
I’m still writing villanelles for the dead.

As I lay with the weight of lead,
on stormy waters I don’t capsize.
If only I could write for you instead.

I feel this rising sense of dread,
I fear I know what this implies.
I’m still writing villanelles for the dead.

Do you dream of a warm, safe bed?
Only you with the countless lies,
if only I could write for you instead.

I should have listened to what you said
when your goodbye came as no surprise.
I’m still writing villanelles for the dead;
if only I could write for you instead.