What you gave me-
A journal for my birthday
Its cover smooth and soft,
Periwinkle blue
And beautiful,
With crisp, unused pages
Beckoning
Me
To imagine, dream, write.
A little rectangle
Of a card,
Fall colors though it was spring,
Brown, orange and cream
Stationary
Asking me
To a
“Birthday get-together.”
Do I throw that and more away
In a rage?

All the writing-
The poem you edited,
Your red pen
Hovering,
Pouncing,
Relentless,
Yet you showered it with praise,
The red marks
Overshadowed.
The story we wrote
Together,
Arguing over the mood,
I wanted sarcastic,
Humorous,
You wanted
Serious,
Thought-provoking.
Do I rip that and all else to shreds
Like in the movies?

The memories I have-
The joke that spiraled
Out of nearly nothing,
Fed by our imagination,
Growing,
Stretching,
Becoming,
Until we no longer knew
Where it had come from.
Crazy phone calls
In which you laughed
At how my cat proved
His insanity,
Eating a sock,
Attacking the wall,
Making us think
He was rabid.
Do I make myself forget them
Just because “we’re finished?”

No-
Every laugh
We shared,
Every tear
That fell on your waiting shoulder,
Every sympathizing word
You gave,
Every smile
That came at just the right time,
All outweigh-
One page,
Three paragraphs,
Six-hundred-nineteen words
Of anger,
Hate,
And general annoyance,
Because I could never
Hate you.