Whatever things make me think of you

It wasn't the persistent tick of the clock
On the nightstand next to me
That made me think of death. It wasn't
The spider quietly spinning her
Delicate web in the corner of the ceiling,
Nor the dying glow of a cigarette
about to meet its end as it hangs
Between life and death
Between my finger tips.
It was an unfinished poem I found today,
Hidden away among old notes.
lines to a girl living in some small unknown
town in France.
A note that read like love;
a love poem
written in terrible French.

By Benjamin Soahlis

1 comment:

Anna said...

I would love to read that note.
You should include it as a footnote to the poem.