Stopping

I still live in 

 used-to-bes 

and forevers that didn't end yet.

It's a place for don't-have 

 and stirrings uncalled.

Stopping myself from calling you, 

I stop myself talking silently.

There is no more there for me, 

 only my wanting.

I asked what would I miss, 

 if I could, 

after I'm gone and didn't dare expect 

to grieve the loss like woken death.

You've stopped visiting me in my

 dreams:

Strangers doing crazy things on

 stages take your place.

Memories sting my eyes and face.

I still sit here 

 holding onto the beats 

and write poems to myself.