for

    once,

   i would

love

      to be

         the poem

and

     not

         the poet

Here, here is love.
Here, here are the pieces.
Here are the words written.
Here are the promises broken.

Here, here it hurts.
Here, here it shatters.
All the pain inside her,
six feet under.

—n.y

Someone once said that we die twice--
First, when we take our very last breath.
The flame on our candle goes out as we
Transition between life and death.

But then comes our second dying.
It’s similar but not the same.
That death occurs when someone for
The very last time says our name.

So where are extinguished flames?
What happens to the morning dew?
What effect does speculating
Have upon our point of view?

Life has many questions to ponder.
I wonder if such thoughts are freeing:
Knowing that we once had been
And not remaining attached to being.

-by Bob B (10-26-19)

Stop saying you love me
Just never say it again
Because I pretend
But if you keep saying that
I might stop lying to myself
That might stop your crying
And I might confess
That deep down I love you too.

How do you
Forgive yourself
For all the
Things that
You never
Became?