I carve love into paper
like it might resurrect me,
like if I write it beautifully enough
someone will finally believe I\'m worth keeping.
Each line a quiet offering,
each stanza a piece of my ribs
laid gently at someone else\'s feet -
hoping they\'ll call it sacred
instead of disposable.
But I remain -
a beautiful tragedy,
something admired from a distance,
something felt for a moment
and forgotten just as softly.
Written in ink that never fades,
yet never chosen to live
outside of the page.
Always the poet
never the poem.