Young Writers Society

I will never love again.
I will never dance,
never sing, never speak.
I will never breathe the soft, caramel air.

I will never paint the sky,
whether tender in the morning blue
or the irritated pink of evening.

I will never close my eyes
as Fausto Pappetti plays through your stereo,
and ripples through my soul.

No more will I read.
Of love, of death, of such.
No more Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet.

What if only Romeo dies?
What if Juliet lived?
Why did you die and I live?

I will never kiss again.
Never moan again.
Never love, or hold, or cherish.
You or anyone, anything else.

I will never see the world.
Never look, or see anything.
Never see the city lights,
glistening over thick ink waters.

I will never see your eyes, your face.
Never touch your lips, your skin.
I will never touch the wet grass
with naked feet.

I will never listen, never hear
those sirens early Sunday morning.

I will never love again.
Never love with the love that loved you.