This poem
I think to myself
as my shaking hand takes to the page,
Will be about the day my father left,
my first day of college,
or even the way my hands shake when I write.*
I write six words,
scratch out seven more,
and continue until I notice
i'm left with
a sloppy "i
still
need
you."
(again).
even when my poems aren't about you, they're about you.