Her words could never be enough
to fill the void of his pages blank,
and a calendar state was never enough time,
to wine and dine and taste of now.
Her poems would hit the bar,
drop the mic and spit fire like seconds running,
sprint fast and cellular souls, for
lyric upon lyric, her story was told.
But, he wanted more than her pen could
record and reword to become memories
only recollected through stifling visions of
now and not yets and maybe whens of
lost breaths trapped in silhouettes of words.
Be Kind and Share…