“I’m getting sick of it, Darling.
Poems meant for you, I mean.
I want to grow, yet my heart doesn’t.
And that’s your fault.

I want to write the forest dry,
but my head doesn’t wander.
I try to forget, will I regret it?
But the trees keep sprouting.

I’m feeling ill, my love.
‘Cause you forget my name.
I’m stuck, the trees closing me in.
I don’t have an axe. I stay.

I want to throw up words.
Get sick of paper in my mouth.
But my heart seems glued,
Repeating the same.”

A.V.