I was reading another poem of another poet with a broken heart, and I've come across this one in particular that says she no longer loves the one she writes about, but she will still pour her heart on the paper, use the tears as ink to her bitter poems. And I realize that writing about you is not wrong and it does not mean I still want you.
It just means the memory of you is curled up somewhere inside me, and I have the need sometimes of coming back to it—like the inevitable bird I am, that travels South for warmth, and then flies back North once more (back to you).
YOU ARE READING
H I M
Poésie"Blue eyes for distant Stars Honey eyes for Sunlight, We are the crashing of waves on sand Tree branches reaching for the bright sky We are where you end and I start; We were made to belong." This is a chapter in a book I am putting together. And t...
