You lie.
It’s me
just like
it’s you.
I know the anger
because of its constancy,
its persistence.
I understand
the trepidation,
the apprehension
that consumes
your thoughts.

I feel it too.

Just as you
heard the ache
in my voice,
I heard
the same
in yours.
Even when you said
we should try
to forget,
I heard
the remembering
in every word.

And try
was a lie
to me
and to you
I know
and you know
that try
means nothing
if nothing
can be done.

And my poems
and your songs
mean nothing
can be done.

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