I could say I love you, that you're beautiful, funny, witty, sensitive, neurotic. You were--. Now, you are not. You are ash and memories and perhaps my left ventricle or something along the lines of my eyes or the corners of my lips. I am the seed you planted in a garden you'll never see.
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You were gone. You are gone - even if I do see you around. Sometimes feels like all the time--an occasion that sets a year. Maybe the next too. You were the rain in a flood. Now you are just the flood. And I am drowning. I am drowning apart at the seams. You do not deserve to be written about. Why is all my best poetry about you? I hate that I loved you. Do I still love you? I miss you--sometimes--I think. I am glad you are gone. Be that forever.
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THAT IS
NOT WHAT I MEANT
AT ALL.
THAT IS NOT IT AT ALL.
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