Melodies are poetry,
you are poetry,
his eyes were poetry,
and my hands are made of words,
                                                            stanzas,
                                                                          and figurative language.
It's hard to breathe and not think of a poem.

"Dust if you must,"
but I will not.

I will live life,
as life is a poem.
And I won't stop until each word is written,
all the pages are used up,
and no stanzas are left to be finished.

No words left unsaid,
because an unfinished poem is like a life abandoned,
as is a guitar song cut off in the middle,
and his eyes losing their glisten.