Poetry Collection 1.0

why

i ask the question

so often,

too often.

and regret

is my constant companion,

though,

this unfriend of mine,

he makes no sense

he talks in his

rushed, panicked way

so very quickly

that

i simply cannot

understand

what he could

possibly want me to do.

for what can i?

and why--

there, there you are

--why does he

ever linger at my side,

drifting,

humming quietly

so i may never forget,

forget him

forget

why.