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You Never Had a Poem
2001-06-02 - 1:47 a.m.

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What better cure for heartbreak?
Sprawling prose across a page
Or the fresh electric feeling
of the day eyes mesh and hold
All saved in ink, like aging wine
But you? You never had a line.

The first was pale, tow-headed boy
Scrawled his heart (but not for me)
For him I wrote my bitter best
The bright of my soul on paper
He was my milk-teeth, calf-love purged
You came and went without a word.

The next was real, shy but strong-
Adorable; I drowned in his eyes
He earned sweet lyrics- the striking match
The perfect shock, the fluttered heart
I loved him. He was my sun-gilt road
But I could never write your ode.

And you. And you. My best
and worst- you shattered me
Without qualm. I soared on love
One-sided but deep... I broke.
You could have filled a cruel tome
Instead... you never had a poem.

No. You never had a poem. And if you read this now, without stumbling upon it like some act of God (proof He has a sense of humor, maybe?), and know this is your first and final tribute, then there's hope you might be the man I once thought possible. But now? God, I know better than to hope now. I'm beyond tears. Beyond prayers. Beyond anger. Beyond grief. Beyond shock. Beyond hate. I have no idea what the hell I am, but every time I think of you I pray that it will be the last time. And it never is. Maybe this will finally put it to rest.

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