All that's Left.

I sit, pencil poised, waiting for the

muse to perch on my shoulder.

I want to write about something important,

like forgetting and remembering,

but all that comes is the

silence of one a.m.

I wish I remembered being born,

floating in the amniotic fluid,

seeing only dark. Instead,

I remember the way you

smiled at me and that,

I’d rather forget.

You didn’t say why

you stopped loving me and

I didn’t ask. Now you stare at me

from a photograph, your

chin on my shoulder,

peering at the camera and

all that’s left of us are

words trapped inside this poem.