A poet usually never speaks on why something or someone still lingers in their mind though they are no longer a part. Sometimes we don't even know, not that we don't want to share but we're just as lost in confusion as you are though our Rapids are more painful - white water. I'd like to believe that I spend many nights, brief moments trying to revive the moment or creation I once knew and lost. Through words. I've told others, take a poem whether it may be about how you've made mountains seem like ant hills, the ocean like a puddle or you've made the sky bleed a color that seemed more red than blue as a compliment because you've seeped you're way into one's inner being, you now flow through their veins and out onto a canvas of pain or beauty. But don't take the poet's pain as some pun because baby we could kill you with metaphors dipped in venom shaped as bullets but to you they're the taste of lips you've always craved, tearing you apart limb from limb. Like you did us. We could make you scream our name while drowning in seas of likes and as, and you won't even grasp that simile.  A poet usually never speaks on why but with you and I, it's to revive.  

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