I saved your words out of the spam
and in my bed I read them loud,
your words are what my life’s about,
how well you know me in your verse
but you don’t know me.
The snow keeps falling over buds
while flowers should be screaming out,
their lives seem lost in silenced doubt
that there will be a Spring again
as they don’t know that.
I keep the poem and the buds,
and shiver now I do without
your smile. You touched a dying sprout.
How well you know me in your verse.
But you don’t know me.