I don’t think I’d say hello even if I found the right words to
However you can have this
You can have this night
You can kiss this morning
I’m very tired
I’m tired of this mourning
Your memories don’t burn
Not like they used to
But I’m twirling my thumbs
And I’m swallowing dead corpses

You left
You left twice actually
Idk
I’m tired
I’m tired of this mourning

~in plain, and sadly o' spake...
fear here wholes me, that--
we as Whole have submitted
our words.
that is...we more, and the more
remain unmoved by their seldom
come... per, and per poetic.
our very existence seems to
write us...bereft o' words.
how...and How...shifty the medium...
birth's subscribed us to--as to be
sidestepped perpetually by creeping
things...could it be...could it be...
a scribbler's de-nied an opus, magnum...
trying to scribble upon a Hurrah-icane's
bygone eye wall?

Konstatinos Mark