My phone is filled with pictures of you through train windows, there are so many that my phone is demanding more memory to store it all as it knows little of my puny capacity to endure more of this,
but how can I self impose a wealth of more memory knowing that I will be keeping a gallery of sadness, like a hoarder as I, as both the artist and the invigilator, tragically review the work that conjures up the emptiness of the hollow station, the hot breeze of engine absence, the shivering that follows.
But I simply cannot not take these photos for I need you to leave some trace, even if it means that like sand you dig your heels into me and make trampled impressions that will supposedly give me poetry, but where is the poem in seeing you go if I have already written it?
And that is the crux,
I write poems of things I’ve written before, take pictures of goodbyes I’ve already endured, waiting for messages of things we’ve already sent and then I wonder why my poems have gone dry, and it’s all because of a too frequent goodbye.