This isn’t a poem about the way your fingers intertwine with mine
Because they’ve never been entangled with another set of hands.
This isn’t a line of prose about your soft lips on my calloused, tired skin
Because only the wind has caressed my body
This isn’t a work of art confessing little sweet nothings that you whisper in my ear
Because the sound of my pen on paper are the only whispers that I hear
This isn’t an elegant post-modern work about the way you wipe away my tears
Because my tears blend into my cheeks, become a part of who I am, moulded into my soul
This isn’t a ******* poem about you,
Because there’s only ever been
Me.
*-lf-