I keep looking over things we wrote
And I feel the flame from when
You burned the heart
I poured out for you.
I feel the paper ignite and the
Redblackwhitehatredblueorange
Collage take place on my
Penmanship.
I keep crying over you.
I can't hear you anymore
But I've resorted to shutting off
Your voice and becoming,
As a conquest called me,
A lying ***** with little self respect.
In a week or two,
Your voice will be back
Screaming "I
LoveHateLiedKilledWantedSkillfullyPlayed
You."
And I'll yell some more
Through poems you may or may not
Read.
And I'll cry some tears
Which soak up the bed we first
Kissed on.
I'll beat something senseless
To drown you out.
Because I don't think,
Even if you could
(For all I know you could),
You would speak to me.
We are just ghosts to the other.

I'm weeping.
I can still feel you.
But only in the dark.
I miss you, Anna.
Sunday will be a year
Since you first told me you loved me.
Will you remember?