It's a postscript
That is yet to be found
Written on the back of an old photo
Along the edge, succinctly.

Buried six feet under where I lie
And it grows as it dies
Wilting over time—
A slow demise that is much more painful
Than a quick stab in the heart.

It's a goodbye without a beginning
And failing without even trying
To keep it is a choice,
To confess it is a risk.

But as long as I see those eyes
Still glistening for that someone
This thing would remain hidden
Under a willow tree — weeping along its branches
Until completely forgotten.

-kg