Searching for a book of matches, I came across one of your poems from 1993. It wasn't written on a matchbook; no. It was written on a page torn right from my heart.
The line about how a blind man helped you to see that words hold more love than truth still burns my eyes. Seems you were right; and you were wrong, too. The ink was no longer as blue as your eyes that day when we last held hands. That day you penned these words to my heart. That very day; our last.
Your poetry used to make me smile, or laugh, or curse your soul for writing words that I could never seem to find. This poem was your best; your last.
The ink has faded and ran in places from all these years of tears shed and long dried. More tears would do no good. I can hardly read these faded lines. You still would not be here to kiss them away, to tell me that everything is going to be alright; no.