How much would I give to not write
this poem if you were with me.
I would give everything, an eye that no longer sees,
an arm that does not move, a chest
that no one kisses.

How much to not discover how it hurts me
and to be by your side.
How much to not get up
at this time in the morning
after dreaming of another man.

I would stop writing in the belief
that it will last forever.
I would start praying again to ask
that like before it wouldn’t hurt you.
I would beg you again
to stay with me
when I did nothing.

And that I wouldn’t leave you for a verse.
And that I wouldn’t leave you
for a poem I’m now writing
to ward off the curse
of being without you.

How much to not write
this book where pain resides
alone with its own void.
How much to sleep a little.
How much to once again hold your face
between my hands
as time is held
when one is happy
and does not know it.

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