I don’t go there so often now
In fact it’s probably been quite awhile
Ever since you left
It’s all, quiet, like a book that no longer writes itself,
If books could ever do that,
It’s quiet like a poem that is missing a stanza
Like a house with empty rooms.
I remember, from time to time, I reimagine,
But those were just fond memories,
Daydreams that I do not need to pinch myself to wake up from:
They aren’t real, I know it even as I dream it.
You’re dead, aren’t you. That’s what they said.
I didn’t believe the stranger I saw in the coffin – I didn’t see you die.
All I know is that no more poems appeared again.
if only there were smartphones and soundcloud then.