Every word I have written
is a small surrender.
I fold my mysteries into ink.
I show you where my heart is stitched,
where it can still bleed.
Every ache with its own zip code
But these days, the notes refuse me.
They gather at dawn in the inkwell
and stay there.
At night, the stories pass through my eyelids
in a dream I cannot remember.
That kind of fading
is how I lost you.
