the poet puts down their pen & enjoys a long, solo walk
there is not enough time for what is left,
just the slow outro of unneeded closure
i stop myself from begging the questions
to which there are no answers & to which the answers are unwanted
the hours approach the moment when you will leave me
for the second final time
do i still have a list of things for which i need to ask forgiveness?
did my love already fill the hole which required my forgiving you?
i cannot write about the future without being cliche—-