It's the lines around your eyes when the sun is in the sky,
it's the bend of your back when you've been holding me too tight,
it's the holes in your pants, that cigarette in your hands,
it's the muted stance when you're silent..
I could write about you all day.

But I can no longer rhyme about you.
No more, can I peel back dog-eared memories to construct sentences in your honor.
I cannot put a pen to paper without first wanting to drive it into my skin to make amends with the aching I allowed into my bloodstream.
Because I let those little lines become what I breathe.
I didn't write you haikus because I'd speak them before we'd sleep.
I didn't send you letters because I'd trace them on your ribs while you'd dream.
I didn't leave you notes because I'd plant them on your lips when you'd wake.
I only wish that these personal journals would have made you stay.

I am your poem.
When your name leaves my mouth I am fluent in love.
I hope one day you may find me folded and forgotten in your junk drawer and decide you want me to start writing again.