By Rose Bence


You Burned me and carved your initials

Into my poetry

And the ashes are

Still swirling years later


My pen chases echoes of hashtags and art

Raging and still not burning out

I’m still waiting for the flame from matchstick to finger

But nothing is catching


My ink refuses to etch

I chase your poetry instead

I hunt the moon between clicks

And scrolls, hoping to find the sun


Musing, hating, missing, waiting

Where did you go?

Is this the end?


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