It Was Just You

I always wrote.

I used a pen

as a teething

ring.

But none of it meant

a

thing

until you.

Until you taught me how

to

bury my love

in the words.

You never knew,

and you never asked.

So I never shared,

or told.

I used my pen for a shovel,

and buried us

when we were four years

deep.

I took one last breath

of our love,

our oxygen,

and buried us both.

The dirty was made of our 

trials,

and errors.

There was no room for our love under

all

that.

The whole world

was made of black and white

until you showed me

that pen,

that shovel,

that poor and sad

grave.

You made me promise not to quit,

But you didn't know

how much I

longed for you when it

happened.

I never quit,

but you did.

So I buried us 

with what you taught me,

and I kept shoveling long after you

left.