It Was Just You
I always wrote.
I used a pen
as a teething
ring.
But none of it meant
a
thing
until you.
Until you taught me how
to
bury my love
in the words.
You never knew,
and you never asked.
So I never shared,
or told.
I used my pen for a shovel,
and buried us
when we were four years
deep.
I took one last breath
of our love,
our oxygen,
and buried us both.
The dirty was made of our
trials,
and errors.
There was no room for our love under
all
that.
The whole world
was made of black and white
until you showed me
that pen,
that shovel,
that poor and sad
grave.
You made me promise not to quit,
But you didn't know
how much I
longed for you when it
happened.
I never quit,
but you did.
So I buried us
with what you taught me,
and I kept shoveling long after you
left.