Some wonderful words strung together by poet Donte Collins:
This poem isn’t about bullets or smoke or
how you left me like a shell to music the cement.
It cannot capture the moment you left simply
because you are still leaving.
Like warm fog erecting each tree before
forgetting the forest.
And i know the imagery so far has been
‘almost’ like a loose thread teasing
The needles mouth. excuse me.
But this poem can only exist outside of my body in parts.
Can only be named one letter at a time.