I have never put our names in any of these poems.
None of these love letters are addressed to you,
none of them carry my signature.
I can’t tell if I’m hoping to forget or to remember.
When I stumble across these notebooks gathering dust in a box,
will I struggle to recall who the muse was?
Or will your smile still be pressed between every page?
I will not put your name in this poem.
I will leave it up to fate,
hand it over to the stars.
I will find this poem someday,
I’ll remember writing this.
I’ll remember loving you.
Indian summer fishing