By Rose Bence
You Burned me and carved your initials
Into my poetry
And the ashes are
Still swirling years later
My pen chases echoes of hashtags and art
Raging and still not burning out
I’m still waiting for the flame from matchstick to finger
But nothing is catching
My ink refuses to etch
I chase your poetry instead
I hunt the moon between clicks
And scrolls, hoping to find the sun
Musing, hating, missing, waiting
Where did you go?
Where is the end?