I liked that you liked my poetry, true.
But I didn't write poems to impress you.
I wrote because of what you made me feel
I wrote so I could remember it was real
I wrote because the emotion was too great
So I still write even though I'm too late
I can't change your mind
not with my words, no matter how kind.
But I still write, because I still must
because I still feel, though all is dust.
I also made you a promise, one I intend to keep
and so this poem you're reading now, is what my heart does weep.