Still Waiting

The other day someone asked me why I no longer write poetry,

I told them, I stopped writing poetry the same day you left,

This was true.

That day I got an empty cardboard box,

Put all my journals in it,

Tapped it shut, and labeled it,

The things I would probably never have the courage to say,

And I didn't,

Ever gain the courage to say them.

The year following the conclusion of that part of my life I learned a few things,

One. You cannot write things into existence.

I wrote for years about how your smile fixed my broken.

About how your happiness drowned out my sadness,

Only to be the most depressed I've ever been in your absence.

Two. I was not an artist because of you.

Three. You were both my muse & my greatest distraction.

Four. My poetry never really died with you.

Much like my life after you left - it just became a little

more difficult to read

Eventually, I did open that box

And I read every word; and I cried

And I was only reminded that three years later,

You were still gone

And I was still waiting