Forgive me for loving,
and then trying to numb that
love like it was mine alone.

Forgive my shaky hands which
scratch along the sky, drawing you
in clouds as if you are still here.

Forgive me for this poem,
which I suppose is really
a poorly written epitaph.

Forgive me for staying
and then for leaving, with the door
still parched slightly open.

Forgive me for thinking that
you would find these words beautiful,
maybe I wasn’t made to be loved.