We still have time to talk
about everything unsaid.
How I pretended to be strong
cause my tears left you
numb and helpless.
How you left not gifting a word
cause you thought
I’d fathom why.
We do have time to
shed tears and wash
our wounds together,
even though every breath
is drawing you further
away — as if away-er
was possible.
We could talk but
we never will.
Our love is on
different wavelengths.
So I’m writing letters
to burn.
You’ll get the ashes
when it is your turn.