You didn’t live long enough,
for the book of you to write the book of me.
Pages stuck on each other,
the only thing that is bound.
We’re meant to turn white paper, black,
inkwells are meant to dry,
and that is meant to be a writers rejoice,
a poets voice.

But all I have is imagining,
assuming, pretending,
something to occupy me,
into mending.
I join words like carriages of trains,
to this hollow you left me,
that’s become this fountainhead of contending,
words on words,
never ending.



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