a poet never forgets


Love, a sculpture by Alexandr Milov.


You might walk over memories like
a street, but I’ll cross it semi-consciously
wondering if I’d bump into you as I walk on my own,
gradually figuring out that life wasn’t built for two.

My soul is mine to keep golden,
I don’t need flecks of rust
poisoning the good that has kept me
at bay from breaking apart like
your other toys.

I’m different this way.

Nostalgia still keeps me in a comfort zone;
it’s hell if you try and come across and I know this
all too well, as I ache inside my heart for you,
as you forget love.

If you truly love, it takes willpower
to not yearn for the eyes
you drowned- not to mention, the heart that
still holds the key,
the face that made you smile

as much as time can, what it cannot
give you back is your old self.

You cannot rewind and be the person
you were before the songs became a bad memory
for each time you remembered their kiss.

I don’t know what is worse;
being a poet who can’t forget
or a poet who will never be a poem;
simply a lonely spirit.


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