I look at all the poems I’ve written about him.
All the broken times I said was going to be my last poem of him.
I moved one feet in front of the other.
I am going to get through this, I told myself.
It’s midnight and I’m reading about all those midnights spent awake,
eyes staring blankly on the ceiling.
I ask myself,
who was the girl who wrote all those poems about him.
wordsarefullofletters 