I'm tired of writing letters
I'll never send
expecting they'll give me clarity
but leading me to a dead-end

J'ai fatigue de lui
is how you say it in French
it's not a language you understand
so I'll say this instead:
Estoy cansada de ti
I'm tired of you
and of the energy you bring

I'll write my poems about you
in old notebooks
I'll use the pages to write letters
I'll burn
but you'll never get

Ornaments of olive eyes
Wading sleepy through starry skies
A silver window of heavens light
Sing me to sleep this winter night
Azalea, lay your flowers in the snow
As I lay, the wind shivers aching bones
Waiting calm for lower tides
I etched a poem in the stone
Rusty sheets, broken boards
Broken folds we call our homes
Azalea, the prettiest face
As I wait, for the dead to come back home

Little azalea
on the corner;
You gave me quiet joy
year after year.

I promised you;
vaguely, as I scampered past
that one day I would snap your picture,
crop it just so
press you in a tender frame
and adorn you
above the fireplace
or in the gentle gazebo
watching as we sip lemonade
and murmur about the weather.

But you have withered
and your buds no longer clasp the dew.

I told you that it was no matter;
that the picture will always live
in my mind.
Yet my memory fades
and I can't even recall
that subtle twist of your fresh limbs
and what was that shade of pink?

I must confess to you
that in the Spring
I will plant a little azalea
above your cracked, buried, splintered bones
and scamper past to hang a dimestore sketch
of some nameless azalea
in the gazebo.

Love is not blind,
but he who did not see your worth.

feelings are okay.
it is apart of being human.

we feel things.
and if no one told you,
your feelings are always valid