I'm sorry for turning you into poetry,

for cracking your ribs one by one so you could fit into my writings.

I was honest when I told you writing is the only way I survive.

It allows me to spit out everything my life has forced me to swallow.

The love we shared can be forgotten as quickly as it happened,

but remember me when you see dark clouds early in the morning or when you see artwork that is poorly drawn.

Rather than haunting you with my memories, I want to make you laugh and remember the times when you were so vulnerable and stupid in love.

It is my desire for you to grow, flourish, and become the muse of some other poet for you are no longer mine.