I miss you because you were a war–
springing up from soiled pages, eraser-mark trenches,
a man wrapped in papyrus bandages.
I miss you because your words
were like will-o’-the-wisps and I could never remember
they meant harm.
I miss you because you had poetry glistening between your lips
instead of saliva. Music instead of anger, me instead of
I miss you because after all those things were gone,
you traced good-bye songs on my skin
and now they burn.
Shairese Penn is a part-time poet, full-time teacher. She resides somewhere in the dusty south, existing off of coffee and internet. She can be found at starendpieces.com.