Every poem to you is a goodbye
A eulogy in itself, for memories both real and unreal
Each begin with shaking fingers spilling ink all over my grandfather's desk which is covered in scratches and marks, and I think
This, this is my heart

I bottle up my emotions in a painted pot and fill it with flowers
To disguise the truth from myself
That I still envelop myself in thoughts of you
In the dead of night when thoughts overlap over themselves
But longing for you is like chasing the horizon
And it has weakened by knees, and blistered my soles
For far too long

And yet I can't seem to find an exit
Because every door opens to you
A standing, living reminder of my cowardice
So I begin my every poem to you with a goodbye
As if I can ward you away with it
But you stay still and silent, always, a ghost in my memory