I told myself I was going to stop writing poems
because I couldn’t stop filling lines
with the feathers of you I had left,
like plucking hope from a whiff of perfume.

But you were never a cliffhanger,
(that was my part)
you were a jumper and
in the end you jumped ship.

There were days I couldn’t tell if you liked me at all.
But I listened in all of your silence
hoping to hear my name on your breath.
There were days I could swear I heard your love song.
You told me it just got stuck in your throat.

I’ll never forget how your lips felt in the cold,
or the valleys between your goosebumps in November.

Maybe I won’t write a poem about it.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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