People have asked if I have written you a poem.
I tell them no.
A poem is
for me to pen down…
I tell them ‘no’
and it’s the truth.
I haven’t written you a poem;
I’ve written you a few.
Everyone filled with a different emotion of
They cannot be compiled.
They lay scattered on my floor refusing to come together.
They are different notes
of different songs
in different keys
that when attempted to be combined sound like a 5 year old hitting the keys of a piano….
I haven’t written you a poem
but if I have, I haven’t stopped writing it.
It is all in different sections now
different pieces of the puzzle, the picture remains incomplete
My pen loves caressing the paper with your name.
My fingers type without resistance.
Even when kisses are supposed to end,
My fingers trace the outline of your lips in ink
running over the keyboard like they were caressing your face.
It just comes naturally.
Sometimes they want to slap you.
Sometimes they don’t want to touch you.
But most of the time
They remember how your skin felt;
they long for that touch.
They slide over keys
drawing the images in words
tracing the moments out
so that I could remember them.
You don’t have a poem.
You have an unfinished novel
Every time I want to write the words
Something new comes up. Another twist to the story
May be I just want to keep writing
May be I just need to keep writing
It will never be finished
You will never be allowed to read it.
Your Poem by Cheyenne Alexandria Phillips is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.