It was pointy
The sharpness of a pinprick; needle
For the various mistakes that I –
would often try to mend
Delightedly
The wincing of a forced smile; feeble
For all the time borrowed that I –
will not give back again
I am sadly
Reading letters from then
A present from the past that I –
remember from when we were two people
Strangely
I still tend to pick up my pen
Writing tender words about you
Every now and then but I –
am what remains unread
© The Sad Owl
Categories: poetry
The Sad Owl
I'm just here. Until I'm not.
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