and it ***** because a lot of them
are about him
words searching in which to heal
in which to mend
and send, this poetry I will not
graphite covered pages he'll never read
a clear understanding
he'll never see
we're just two sheets of ice
melting into tidal waves
that wash and spill
our remembered days
wash and spill
they are just a hue
erasing my burned thoughts,
memories of you
but these pages won't forget
all our moments in stanzas and lists