My lover remembers to leave me a note,
talking about the time we used to talk
when we were lovers,
when our bedsheets aligned,
and the politics overhead too, made love every day,
and found the time to write spare notes - on cheap paper, and my borrowed pen,
to an amour she would not see anymore,
talking about the blue nights she spent with me,
my lover recalls with vividness
the words I had said to her,
before I could learn to speak again,
in this really long note she has left me, and
I can suddenly see time as I have never before, and
my lover looks at me as if she has never before,
and she doesn’t know when to stop, and her heart doesn’t stop so easy,
and I could stop reading,
knowing she might die soon.

Why does it take long to write a poem?
are months consumed into few fleeting feelings?
a poem is severed.
Of feelings that need to be let go of,
a delusion of a listen,
poem doesn’t listen,
what does it do?
An appearance for
no purpose,
but to be outside
is like braving the wind
to tell the wind you have braved it,
is this a poem?
None of us know yet.
Mounting feelings in an abandon,
a poem deceives,
and leaves them for dead,
for forgetfulness is eternal,
and the rest rot in several lifetimes,
but the burden?
Unburden, eventually?
The poem is ******,
Can we let go of it at all?
It persists.
We let them know we were there,
to come face to face with selves of us,
that we have avoided,
does the poem really look out for you?
And asks, pretending you know?
Do we need no end?
We are here to while away time
and tell them
we whiled the time away.