it's funny when you think about it:

of all the wasted words spilled between the two of us
and all the pens i used up,
     in scribbles by my bedside,
and all the keys i tapped,
     in a maniacal panic during sleepless nights,
and all the phrases and sentences and paragraphs spent
trying to capture her and her mind on paper,

the last words I ever read by her,
a short story written for a class I took many years before her,
were really, really awful.