I wrote you a poem.
On October 24th, 2009,
in 42 lines,
I said I loved you.
I wonder why
I never gave you
that poem,
and never told you
in person.
Maybe if I had,
I wouldn't be sitting
here alone,
in our spot,
on the cliffs
edging the lake.
I carved our
initials here,
once upon a time.
Four letters lasted longer
than forty-two lines
ever did,
no matter how
hard I tried
at all three.
Thing is, though
relationships
and poems
and rocks
shouldn't always be
my responsibility.
You should have
pitched in, too.
It would have been
the only thing
that made me
love you
more.
Now, I sit
by the initials
and tear up the poem.
Let it soar away
like a dancing swan
on the blue water
of the sky.
Now all that remains
are four letters,
a symbol,
and a heart.
Somehow, I can't
bring myself
to scratch that out.
I already got rid of
the journal entries
and the tears,
the picture,
and now the poem,
the "I love you"
that I never got
the chance
to say
out loud.
I will keep
those few words
on the cliff,
the way I kept
my feelings
to myself.
They can remember
first love
when I am old
and gray.
This way,
part of us
will always stay
alive
and young.
I still want that
for you,
even if I don't care
anymore.
Even if I wrote
fifty extra lines
to prove what
forty-two lines
couldn't.