in this old book,
i've kept thousands
of words,
written in a form;
of songs,
of letters,
of passages.
you used to
read it,
beside me,
with your soft,
honey voice,
it soothes
the feeling inside,
i—we used to
sing the songs
together,
with butterfly kisses
in between.
i thought
your loyalty
worth the
thousand words,
the lyrics of the
songs,
dear daisies,
of my love.
and yet
you still left,
me.
i need a song,
i need a letter,
i need words,
just to tell—
everything
i should've—
i need anything
just to make
you stay.
—still loving you,
thorns.
