Love is not blind,
but he who did not see your worth.

Do I miss you
I can't say that I do

but make no mistake
this is still a love poem

but about loving different
things

about opening my eyes
and smelling

a much different flavor
of coffee

Whit Howland © 2020

I still write poems about you
the same way
a widow
brings flowers to the grave
each word is tied
to your shadow
led to the slaughterhouse
for muted screams
we only existed
in the gap of time
inside the silence between heartbeats
now our borrowed history
is fading
like the end of a song
like the last line of a poem

I'm afraid of my own hands

I cannot trust them
because I know were they've been
and it is hard to wash away the past

I try to hide them and keep them as far away from me as possible
to protect myself from them

but these are the hands that feed me
and bathe me
and touch me

I have to trust them but I can't
I'm afraid of my own hands