Does he know he is still in my poems?

He left a stain on the tip of my pen

I realize at the finish of each ode

I have been writing of him again

How do I shake him from my mind

When he is a spirit who demands a space?

Some memories grow duller with time

But I fear ours will never be erased

The shooting star’s no longer in my sky

Though there is a crater left behind

I can fill it with new earth and flowers

But I’ll always see his name around the line

I wonder often if he sees my poems

If he knows he is in each jot and tittle

That though the years are unrelenting

I love him still, more than a little