Tomorrow, he buries him
Bury with him the letters he wrote
Poems and prose, limericks and
sonnets
Of passion, of jealousy,
Of
doubts, of anger,
Of sweet-nothings, of
bodies tangled up last night
He wouldn’t write back
He wants to write
more
The mist was thick
and the pavement, wet
yes, wet with their liquids
yes,
liquids of love
He wore his scarf.
He wore his jacket
The pavements won’t remember
That they were who they were
But he would,
Every step he’ll make,
On the same wet pavement,
On a day overpowered by
mist,
He’ll let out a sigh
That fated day, he
wanted to see him
But the storm is
unquenchable, unforgiving, relentless
He never knew. They
never knew
He was the one to make a final blow
It would scar him
And, he can never
wound him back.
A few inches separate them
The space between his face and the glass was a few inches
His face was on the
glass
No one was to blame.
All but timing - malevolent,
insidious, cunning
Tomorrow, he buries
him
the unspoken
words
the
unwritten prose
the unknown
songs
Clothes
unreturned
Today, he grieves
