Poetry isn‘t really my thing.

Phrases that make you blush?

That make your heart sing?

Words that fit so perfectly on a page?

No, poetry isn’t really my thing.

But all the thoughts in my mind?

The things I notice,

The things I’d describe!

The way the light often caught in her eyes,

The low rumble of his voice,

When remembered – makes me sigh?

The memories are more painful now,

Something I never thought I’d know,

Weaved only in lyrics and lines of Vaudevillian and Broadway shows.

I would do anything to remember each detail –

The number of stars above us as we struggled to keep warm,

Or the mess in the kitchen of everything we burned.

But then again, I’d pay anything to forget –

The summer nights we ran through fountains, and ran soaking wet.

The thoughts only hurt knowing you couldn’t care less.

Constantly torn between remembering and forgetting,

Documenting and deleting,

My thoughts have become a mixed up mess not even worth keeping.

Your nobility an act,

Your care – a lie.

In the end I'm relieved the words were goodbye.