a blank page

The thing is that I’m writing this letter

And it has said too much 

Of what we already know

I keep thinking or maybe not thinking

If I just phrase the murder differently

It would be alright

A duller knife perhaps

Not so vicious

An accidental poison

That tasted like the red cherries

You used to stain my lips with

In the summer

But the word murder will never lose sight of its mark

And I see us on our knees in the winter

The frantic brushing of snow on our lips

To clean the red that stained them 

One last dance first, then,

Where you held me like the beginning and it all still smelled

Of that fresh paint inside

White everywhere, then, that’s how

We’ll remember it 

White everywhere, and you can’t make out the end

And destiny is such a liar

Telling us that we could not possibly already know

What it was we already knew

It was always what it always was

Red from the beginning but we kept painting it white

And then some blood would shed like tears

And creep back in all over the walls

No matter, paint it white. No matter, nothing mattered

When we already knew the end

We just kept wanting to go back to the beginning

So I’m tearing up the pages and cutting it short

“I remember everything” 

Fin. You get it. He would.