February



I left.
You left.
What's left?
Fringes
Fragments
And the sun?
It burns.
Burned them all.
What's there to burn?
Nothing.
Just words
Unearthed, now
Buried again.
Just nothing.
Poetry if you will.
Yours mine
Everything.
Something.
What was it?
I forget.
And what are these?
Stunted phrases
That claim to be
Poetic.
Pretend to be
Poetic.
Maybe it'll
Come again.
Maybe.
For your sake
Or mine
Or February's. 


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