Sometimes in life

Sometimes in life, you should leave a poem unwritten. Do not take a photograph, no; and leave the written post card in your text book rather than drop it - lovingly, laughingly, and with a sad smile - in a red post box somewhere in London. Leave the dance undone, and leave the teabags in the jar. Because all this gets trodden upon, forgotten, left over, not missed, not loved, and not remembered time and time again like you would, like you do. And it is nobody's fault, you see. Well, it almost is not. Life hits you, and makes you fly, and when it makes you fly, it makes you forget. Forget, you do; forgotten, you have. And I am wondering what to do about the pages of poetry that echo of desperate aches in the pit of my stomach, of sleepless nights and dazed mornings, of promises made, broken and kept, of stories that were written, unwritten and rewritten, and of red chiffon and blue silk.