Diary of A Poet

You gave me nothing I could hold, yet I have held it anyway— the crumbs, the glances, the half-smiles tossed like pennies in my tray. I built a god from your neglect, I prayed to silences you kept, I knelt before the altar of the hours that you overslept. You never struck me down, my love, you simply let me kneel and stay, and that was crueler than a blow—you let me worship and decay. I know the weight of every door that closed behind you, soft and slow, I know the hollow in the room where your absence started to grow. I filled it with my desperate hope, I stuffed it full of fevered dreams, I painted over cracks with wishes, mended everything with seams of "maybe someday," "if," "perhaps"—a tapestry of things that never would be, could be, should be mine, but I wore it like a tether. You were the match and I the wood, you were the spark and I the flame, but you walked away before the fire could even learn to speak your name. You left me burning in the dark...