Sneaks off with soft night clouds
Over the park that is on the other side
Of dark silhouetted trees.
Lying in bed, getting over things
I might not write about heartbreak and her
As much if we were never going to die.
If someone can read your poetry
That is blatantly reaching out,
And they do nothing,
They do not care about you (me).
The television lights the room,
I send a text message;
it does not say Delivered.