there are pages of posted poems:
so many fragments of soul left behind
when you shed them and became someone else.
every work and review is from two years ago
and they might as well be from the last century;
your profile without a date makes me feel
as if i'm reading an incomplete obituary.
i never knew you - you, this poet
who once spilled their words as i do now
with creatures clawing their way through my chest
i regret that i never knew you (you make me feel shallow),
half-wishing to drag you back into this
half-world of impersonal profiles
and too personal poetry.
there is no need for a layer of dust
to create an atmosphere of neglect
in a deceased person's house
because i'm still trailing my finger
along your possessions (of words)
and wishing i knew you.