If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry

i used to think
my intimacy lied at the tips of your fingers
stimulated at the touch
but one night, i took my own
i asked them, why not?
they answered, as my legs spread apart, and away, from the thought of you, to the thoughts of myself.

I, of course, was done with you
My poetry, on the other hand
She had, some of her own plans
Her own things to say, her own hurt to bleed
I said okay, I’ll hold you, until we breathe

These words,
look a lot like the tears I want to cry.
My eyes wont budge, this heart is angry,
But my fingers type like I've forgiven you.

We write about love,
like it is here, like it is whispering to us.
When most, who write about love,
are writing love,
instead of,
loss,
hurt,
and anger.