I was content with writing the words for you. I always had too many of them anyway. You had none for me.

And I had plenty for you. I had all the time in the world. And in your silence, I perverted your eyes into poetry. Stanza one; your eyelashes. Stanza two; your confronting corneas. Stanza three; your blink; a passage of time that developed us in the dark room of separation. Polaroids, strewn everywhere and then some; sunken in boxes that you didn’t see; my boxes. And over time you became the art that surrounded me, following me to California, spilling my blood on the sands, hearing the birds rumble and uproot over me. But I am constantly flightless. You left me on this earth with a nagging habit of loving the words that formed you. Poetry has a shaky way of playing keys that sound like you.


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