I know you'll hate this, Pretend it never happened, Throw it away, Tuck it in a book, Return it to the library, Or leave it on a train, Fold it up and fly it, Through a window, Scrunch it to a ball, Drop it in a bin. I don't want a reply Just for you to know: Thank you.
Just a quick poem, To say what I could not, Despite my longing, For you to know, That I am so grateful, For all that you showed, Your patience calmed me, To learn to be still, Let worries pass by, To think about the real, So you can understand my guilt, For not having expressed, My deepest thanks, Lying within my chest.
I know it wasn't you, It was words, Facts that had to be said, Lines that had to be read, Duty to be carried out, Necessity to mount, It wasn't your choice, But destiny's voice. I know all these things, Yet, actor or spirit, It was you who did it. Thank you.
These words seem so paltry, For the task that I have set them, Like a handful of bodies, Facing a massed army, Or a net, Reaching for the voice of beauty, Reaching for something Quite impossible. Nonetheless, it is all I can muster, And hope that you Might make them something more Than thank you.