I wanted to write down a poem today.
So I sat down, pen and paper in hand
And cried.

This was not a poem that I was trying to make up,
In fact, I knew every line.
Every beat.
Every inflection that you would use.

It is so hard
To put your kiss
Onto paper
When you're not around anymore.

He drinks his medicine
in public, People's Voice hidden under
poetical works of someone
whom he will never meet.
Napkins and wrappers of a muffin's
top what he has been looking for,
maybe under the backpack.
Shoulder slung leather brown
Past. He drinks
his medicine in the early
"Morning."