This is not a poem
His name was my favorite.
This is not a poem.
I can’t write a poem.
Not about him.
Not about that.
This is not a poem.
This is not about him.
This is about hiking.
This is about braclets.
This is about seashells.
This not about you.
Everything about me has become about you. Since you left.
And something so simple like hiking or braclets has become a reminder that you no longer exist on earth, and I’ll continue to pretend that I have accepted that, that I’m at peace with you leaving me or me not be able to save you.
