So much was written/
already about silence,/
there’s not much to say.
Or
there’s not more to say.
So much was written/
already about silence,/
there’s not much to say.
Or
there’s not more to say.
In the past we’d have /
lain with the pain to heal. Now,/
that’s no solution.
My father was right./
He told me: “There is beauty /
everywhere.” There is.
How does it feel to/
Know I write in pain about/
You, long gone woman?
How ironic. She/
“Facebook liked” the sad topic/
which i inspired.
Lavender pillows:/
Poor substitutes for being/
wrapped up in your arms.
At 2 a.m. I /
wake to see if u wrote me./
You didn’t and won’t.
I look at the moon,/
half shadowed and half revealed./
Now, it means nothing.
I’ll probably be/
hardest on you for being/
most hard on youself.