Woven words and hinged lines
link to a plot better left behind
a magical means for a story to end
a wounded soul’s only bestfriend.
What a dreary world it must have been
for someone’s own sanity to depend on a pen
yet unbeknownst to the crumpled note
a life was saved, no truths untold.
A supposed escape that makes me remember
yet only in this does remembering feel bearable.
Both a bravery and weakness to show so boldly to the world,
when the favorite warmth has gone utterly cold.
Fixing us among words was my only redemption
always the message that fate fails to bring in the right season.
And should ours be a story this tragically written
I have known it in the way you wrote me poems since the beginning.