September 17, 2009 | 10:44 a.m.
no one thinks to witness.

oh you, rotting out the roots of my old poems, wrapped 'round the ring of 2002 where my love for you grew blind and wild, a truth only half told while i was high on life and half past time. i will never love like that again. and i am lucky.

even if we were never ever, our history still lives in me. a winter whisper of a wasps nest. a volcano tight lipped with lava.

i don't underestimate what's grown dormant.