My poems about you have been going unfinished lately,
and I think that's the perfect way to explain what we had.
Unfinished,
no more to give,
wondering what could come next but nothing ever did.
Sometimes I think about if you had stayed just a little longer what we would have created between us.
I think about the poems I may have wrote,
maybe they'd be sappy love letters swapped out with the red stained heartbreak metaphors.
They'd erase in the midst of time,
burning into something a little less unsettling.
But I know it could never be,
eventually there would be much more ache to please my writers brain and torture my soul.
This,
us,
was an unfinished poem,
from laughing in the passenger seat,
passionate heart beats,
to forgetting I quit smoking cigarettes at 3am,
distraught,
escaping who I am.
And it was all left to abyss,
for time to remember.
