she started a hundred poems
with your name in the first lines,
and she kept looking for you
so she could write the last.
she tried to fill the remaining pages.
I move faster now, nonstop, aggressive.
but she used to pause and cherish,
every word, red written in black.
now, the words feel unfamiliar,
none of them synonymous with what was.
my black turns red, and there’s no ink left,
yet something warmer than ink keeps spilling onto the page.