I wrote you a poem
but I left it on the car seat
I folded it in half
then folded it again
negligently
I placed it here
then there
until it was lost
and I wonder what type of life
it must have
apart from me
without my hands
without my books to read
or pages to be
pressed between
I can remember the words
some phrases really
when I think on you these days
I think mainly of your voice
though I cannot recall
a single word
you said to me
not even goodbye
in moments of stillness
of quiet and calm
I collect myself
and I think to write it down
again
but it stays just that
an unfinished task
time and again
I only think on it