I never write these poems about you any more. It is not that I do not think about you. It is not that I do not wonder what could have happened. It is just that I stopped looking endlessly for you in crowds you never walked in and dreams you never occurred in. Your name, oh how it still tastes funny. Sadly it is as common as the rain and it rains a lot. Mine on the other hand never quite makes it out of any lips not even yours. I miss your hands sometimes but never the awful things that purposely found their way from your mouth to my ears so keep your ***** hands to yourself and change your name.