I used to write poetry for you. Who we were and what we wanted. Our hopes and dreams spanned galaxies, barely coexisting. I knew even then we were different.
I still write poetry about you. About the plans we had and who we could’ve been. About how our paths diverged and the wreckage left behind.
I will never stop writing poetry about you. About the pain and heartache and love and joy and lust. About patience and betrayal and confusion. About slamming doors and broken photos. And the things we could’ve been.
I wonder if you still read my poems and know you are still my muse
