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A poem about all the things said and not said.

You are all the joy, all the pain
I'd ever hoped to know.
The pain in which I wallow.
You're a wound that won't heal,
at which I pry,
to prove it real.

You are an ache I can't swallow
and the only memory time can't steal.

Is it love or lust, or just the memory of?
Maybe lying to myself makes me feel alive.
Or maybe just
that I have lived.
I had a chance to give the least, the best. The rest,
is just a history I won't write.

There's still a desire that dizzies me
on nights when the dark is unbroken.

I'm hounded by words
I have and have not spoken.
I still wonder if you read those letters?
Tied with ribbon are they withered
at the bottom of a box
You don't care to open?

A few more words for me to wish unspoken.
Woven in ink, those unrealized dreams.


(Original: unknown)
(Second Draft: 05-02-16)