Must I wonder if your thoughts are of me? If you are missing me, wanting me, creating heart beats and poet-less words for me?

[ i do…]

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me your poetry.

Tickle my heart with your pen. Write me for all to read. Bind our love inside a book. Make me, your poetry.

You see, the what ifs are as boundless as the stars.

Love Was
Love Will Be
But Most of All,
Love is.
Life Cannot Be Without It
It is found in the Womb
In The Woods
In The Stars.
To Be or Not to Be
To Love, or not to Love
They Are Equal.
My Soul Whispers Into the Spaces.
Yes.

even in death, his last breath was poetry
existing in the wind
and on the breeze of
"it used to be likes"
forever remembering,
yet never reliving
his life
will never be what it used to be like.