He wrote me poems,
his heart on a page
filled with black
covered in syllables longing to reach me.
My heart was open,
raw and forced,
by the claws of heartache.
His words felt like liquor,
stinging the scrapes,
then numbing my heart,
drunk in the peacefulness of comfort.

He wrote me poems,
but I could not read them.
My mind was elsewhere,
lost in the memories and the hope for a tomorrow,
and
I slipped away,
broke his heart,
the page went blank.

He doesn't write me poems,
but this one is for him.
For every leaf that falls,
I think of him,
every snow that dusts the grass,
I remember him.
I will write him poetry,
to cover up the guilt I feel.
I hope he reads this,
to not understand
the enigma of love
friendship
hope
*im sorry