Your death as poetry

you are not the poetry i’m used to. you are skin and bones and all the things i cannot say because i am too afraid to admit them. i am a coward: i did not say goodbye and i knew i would regret it. 

despite my greatest efforts your death was not poetry. it was messy and i panicked and now i have nothing to show for it. no words no memories. 

my greatest regret is not knowing you. (i thought i did.) but now words that never came out of your mouth remind me of you: almonds, blue skies, daisies, the color white. 

inevitably it all comes back to you. 



17 years old

More by GreyBean

  • untitled #2

    i am learning to live without the idea of you

    and i am trying to fill up the empty cave 

    in my head, the one you created when you 

    fell to the ground and pulled me down with you. 


  • And So I Refrain

    she talks to me about the paper snowflakes she plans to make this weekend, and so i refrain from telling her that my bedroom has been decorated since the day after thanksgiving.