i cried for the first time since i left my heart
in brooklyn and crawled a thousand miles south and west of the city

thought I would follow your smoke signal home.
Find you on the porch, with your pipe in hand,
but I got there and you were gone.

The smoke that remains, was from a book you had burned,
a book I wrote too may words in.
You flew five thousand miles east across the sea,
to write better stories than I could.

Now I'm writing words in the book of a gentlemen,
one I fear I may hurt.
The handwriting's sloppy and the story
melancholy, but at least I am writing at all.

and tears fell today when we spoke, because there was honesty.
the truth was piercing and I felt anger.

pens do not erase