She learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands – hands that will never know the weight of what they seek.
The voices of the dead poets cried out in alarm and warned her about the greatest heartache of all – how every stroke of pen thereafter would open the same wound over and over again.
Just found out how true this is. That every time I reread the poems I wrote I travel back in time to where I was. Like the past becomes the present all over again.
If only I could stop time
I will not keep you forever
I just want to hold you
A little while more.
He was sleeping next to me when I wrote these lines, crying. It was one of the last lasts before he was set to leave.