she tells me
in a harsh letter,
a farewell letter
to be exact.
penned not long after
i set her things
out back.
it's not poetry at all,
she writes.
it's your life,
your daily observations,
you're no robert frost
my friend,
not even e.e. cummings,
it's a diary,
a journal. but not poetry.
and the reason i know this,
is because i read
it every day
to see what you've written
about me.
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