I told myself I was done making poems out of people
It is comparatively easier to erase words
than a soul from my memory
people aren't poems
poetry is a flame
a fire doesn't pick and choose what it engulfs
it is both violently dangerous and entirely free
and under the influence of your gaze
I've set ablaze an entire library
do you think books have emotion?
do words feel the pain?
there is a ghost of you following me and I've been trying to capture the sound of your voice in clicks of a keyboard
I tried press the pen close to the paper
like your fingers on my back on those long nights
now mine are blistered and I've replaced the memories with ash piles on my book shelves