238, 900 Miles

Like my favorite pencil,
I will turn the memories of you over and over inside my head,
Until the surface is rough from teeth marks.
I will erase and erase,
Until the eraser is shreds,
And the indents you made are still scars on the page.
And at three a.m. when I miss you,
I will attempt to sharpen the image of your face as I lie in bed-
Until the yellow between the tip and the end is no larger
Than the sliver of the crescent moon I can see from my window,
238,900 miles away.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem