How Can I

Who says,

“I miss you”?

Is it the lonesome time,

Is it the non-functioning smile,

Is it the silence in the crowd

That says so?

I stand firm,

I write strong.

The pen is not cruel,

The paper is not angry,

And the book, so expressive,

Stands by me —

Not for my standard,

But for my living.

Life is mortal,

But the journey of breath

Is such as to live

With a beautiful death.

How can I deny the truth?

How can I ruin emotion?

How can I murder myself

Without giving myself life?

How can I?

How can I?