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

Tagged as: death existence letters loneliness lonely love poetry sad sadness time writing

The Sad Owl

I'm just here. Until I'm not.