Photos

I deleted the photos of us.
Your funny texts
and loving kisses marked by ‘x’
to find the treasure where my love
could be.

They had to- the budding weed
strangling the flowers of love from me.
The root of all this pain- dug up,
Deleted, gone.

Me and you, me and you, me and
you. Your body, your smile,
your loving embrace,
your awful jokes that bound like lace
of sweets you’d love. Us.

Gone.

Had to be, to smile at what I cannot see
nor be proud of what I was to be
with. You.
Your jokes are like some Valentines card,
that withers in the rain of March.
The ink all ran down your little lies
and pooled about our feet.

So I cast you into the trash file.
Delete these photos of us,
save one. I shamefully admit.

I cannot bring myself to do it,
it is not because you are in it-
though you are. With arm about me.

It is because the room looked warm,
and I looked young and brave.
Was just as flower, ope’d in Spring,
over my heart’s old grave.

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