[ 1. 17 ]
upon reuniting with daybreak,
i found the note
with my name furiously slashed across the front
sitting on your old seat this morning.
it read:
"dear you,
i
hate
you.
our story was poems manifesting themselves as
moments, the most beautiful kind
and the poem that's still you is not one
that i can erase from myself.
your memory is buoyant,
unable to drown
in all the liquor i down
in trying to forget you.
know what else burns me?
the kush i send down my lungs
is unable to get to my heart and
take your place;
loving you, through all this
has me so full of hate.
you give me so much to forgive
that i can't forget you;
you're unforgettable,
too damn memorable,
and that's why i hate you."
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
