You moved on.
I took it hard
for a while,
but it didn’t negate
what we shared.
It’s still there—
every smile,
every conversation,
every sigh in the night —
it’s still there, somewhere…
I think of you
when I least expect to —
as I’m hunched
over the sink
washing dishes,
or stuffing laundry
into the washer,
you hit me like a bullet
in the back.
You still inspire me
and that’s putting it lightly.
You urge me
to create, create, create!
so that I’d suffocate
if I didn’t.
Every time I search
for a word or a phrase,
a color or a chord,
I find you.
Again
and again.
Because of you,
I am an artist.
I must create something new
from the pieces you left me.
I must translate you —
into prose, rhyme,
chords, brushstrokes —
anything to get you
out of me.
