The Key

The ink from my pen

has run dry

unlike the tears over you

that I cry.

I’ve used up all the words

I could write

now the time has come to

say goodnight.

For tomorrow I must consign

you to the past

even though I know these

feelings want to last.

The only way for me to move on

is to set you free,

to close that door in my mind

and turn the key.

antique crumpled crumpled paper dirty
Photo by Ylanite Koppens on


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