how the words always come back to you
it's a tricky dichotomy
of love and regret
of false starts
and good intentions
the first poem i wrote
was meant to say goodbye
but came out
something like "im sorry"
the next
a ramble of reasons to stay
i never allowed myself to finish
there is a poem for you
on the fabric of a bus seat
somewhere in northern virginia
it is a fervent promise
to never break any promises again
on napkins
in 16 resteraunts
the first line was "i still love you"
but the second
still a secret at the bottom
of 16 garbage bins
the space
between the front of my journal
and the crack in its gentle spine
is a ping pong match
between past and future
between what is true
and a seductive lie
give me pens
there is another poem
still buried beneath all this surface
give me pens
i still need to write a poem for you
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