The Last Poem Revise, Part One

They say love is poetry
or maybe that poetry is love.
For someone like me
love could be in a bounty of words
spoken to the pulse in your wrist.
Lift my sleeve and see my wrists;
they weren’t always that clean, you know.
They might say love is poetry,
but some find love in the poetry we never write
or leaving what you desire
in order to save it.
Like the day I gave up on poetry
to try and save my life.
Put the pen away. Leave the pages
inkless,
because no one wants to know
that someone couldn’t love you back
and died in vain,
spilling your blood to end
the grief in her bones.
Know one wants to know.
Sometimes the things we leave behind
are the ones we need the most.
Love can be the best part of living.
Love can be the hardest part of living.
Some of us can’t tell the difference.