It has been seven years
and still

I cannot
walk upon your streets –

Belly full of butterflies
and yet I try sometimes,

past the pawnshop
and your rusty car,

parked in my brain.
These streets are veins –

and I remember your cut wrists.
Too hot outside:

to walk, to think,
to feel-

your advice on my Poetry –

Still trying, darling,
you see, even now,

my Teacher, my Friend,
be fearless!

I am getting better –
in what you practice now,

your finest Art.
The Poetry of Silence.