He’d Write Her a Poem, He Thought

Yes, it was time, he thought,

Time for a poem.

He’ll write all the memories

Down on paper and keep it tucked

In an unused pocket and read it in

Quiet moments alone with his thoughts,

The yellow pages creased

Against his hands.

Yes, time for a poem.

The kind that caught the light against

The small freckle on the middle of

Her right cheek.

He’ll know peace when he gets it down

And it’s all there.

He can see it now as he holds his pen, the

Favorite one, yes, yes! Her eyes in the sun

From the surface of the pond as the light sets.

They were hazel. She said he should’ve known

That by now.

But now he does and she is gone for good.