Her poems littered your wall like trophies;
I was close to being one but my words just couldn't contend
with hers
in those perfectly picked frames filled with  the hollow
strings of letters she likely lent to others
before you.

Ghosts of feelings you clung to.
Ghosts you ran from.
Ghosts you worshiped.

I imagine your trophy wall is feeling pretty empty right now,
and you probably don’t want to hang the words I have for you.
But in the likelihood you are curious here’s just two:
Your Loss.

Sorry I didn’t frame them.