“Of the End”

About this poem:

I wrote this when I was twelve…I think. I recently dug it up in a notebook I had in middle school, and I thought I’d type it up and put it on here. A writer’s gotta have works of writing after all.

We start with a word.
We end with a song.
And as we go unheard,
and as we go along,
we will find the absurd,
but it’s where we belong.

My love, go without regret.
Go without a sound.
In silence, we cannot fret.
It is there we are not bound.
We may not be correct,
but we will be around.

I left you in a warm place,
and I now cannot remember
a single detail of your face
as you slipped into slumber,
as you left without a trace.
And so comes December.

About T.K.

I'm an LGBT writer, biological anthropology student, and an ardent aro(mantic).* *One who does not feel romantic attraction.
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