Remember the way that
writing poetry used to be okay?
Your name was slowly inked upon my pages, our
pages, huh? And I strung so many words together, words to big to even fit
into my small silhouette of a girl. I put them together,
wonderfully, silently,
as you downed another sip of powerade and sat down
a little too close to me, and held onto my,
hand just to make sure I was still
okay. And I was. Just fine. All I thought
I wanted was you with me, and thats
exactly where you wanted to be.

But those books are gone, april’s poetry
should be burned and forgotten,
and our epilogue is this:
He left, and she spent the next months searching for his duplicate.