deleted

she reaches for the
buds of
early October

and the night,
     well-worn
by comet-trails and matchstick
                                         wishes,

aches,
  ablaze.

and all you've left is
another layer to dry,
blue over my heart.

and I am so,
so,
sorry for the terrible poesy. The
hum
of creating hasn't quite
left me yet, though it may be in-
evitable.

We tread in silence, wreaths upon
Gravestones, where you lie amongst
Flowers unpicked, at rest.

-

-

the first tragedy:
in two months you'll be gone -
there's really not much point in staying.

you uttered my name
once, months ago, a question
I left unanswered.

I am not a poet.
Who are you to call me one
When all I do is cram out As and
Words that don't mean a thing,
Pretentiousness masked as literature,
Romanticized depression in monochrome.