**[not horror or thriller]**

I write words with backgrounds

some couldn’t imagine.

Poetry and stories

are something I call passion.

He wrote jokes,

helped me with some poetry.

Bought me some coffee,

told me I was in no hurry.

Words were just words

until someone made them special.

He smiled and gave me inspiration,

shared the ways on how not to wrestle

with myself.

But how do words help

when his heart doesn’t beat?

He would want me to continue,

but I wish our story was complete.

But, sadly, it is.

Just not the way I hoped.

He wouldn’t judge me,

he knows it’s the way I cope.

He gave me something to write for,

even called me the cute lil shortie.

I loved his way of words,

and I still do because

even the dead tell stories.

—————————

I don’t know.

I tried?