My ink rarely rhymes.
And I write words
even myself
can’t understand.
Daily ink spills
and splatters
on my tangled sheets,
sometimes I’m ashamed of.
The empty, naked
mosaic of love letters,
you thought.
My canvas of colorful illusion,
dim and chaotic,
you said.
The words I write to you,
for you.
Words that always land
on your silent, unappreciative lips,
unseen by your darkly unsympathetic eyes.
A poem you wouldn’t want to read,
A poem you wouldn’t want to hear.
A garden you wouldn’t want to tend.
And now that the teardrops
have ceased,
the birds in the cages
have been freed,
the plants unwatered and flowers are left wilted,
the winds have begun to blur
the memories,
the ink has run dry,
and no more thoughts of you remain.
I have nothing more to say.
I have nothing more to wish.
There is none to plead.
My ink and my love for you
have now rested in peace.
