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."

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.