She no longer writes on walls
as when I first met her.
I remember the pen-scratched poems on
kitchen-wall tiles
newspaper bits stuck with collate
“good lines” underlined or highlighted
(the same color highlights around the world)
She no longer writes on walls
as I have done once in my life.
Perpendicular to my laying in the bed
block letters spoke unconvincingly
trying to convince myself, “I want to write.”
Which could have been,
“I want to do art” or
“I want to become a better person” or
“I want to learn to eat raw vegetables”
Obviously out of a fit of passion,
but less so than her once persistent wall-additions.
They were not her words, of course,
they were borrowed versions–
And as I took the remnants down, scrubbed the tiles,
unstuck the tape, ripped some corners slightly
I saw lines of what had been, emerging.
squares of clean space, bordered by
grease and smoke and 5 years of living,
A void.
A small reminder, that she no longer writes on walls.
