You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

To end this, is to run blindly - falling
loose limbs wild and flailing
with hands that can no longer grasp
a saving grace, a final branch
we are lost in desolation
it is pure wilderness
a long winter's night
with no path or tracks
to follow, cold like snow
we plow this landscape, barren
deep and dark below
to seep into the soul
lingering long in limbo
the ache of holding on
transformed into
the pain of
letting go