Clem Onojeghuo

Loving a writer is not easy, I suppose.
We carry with us faded notebooks,
crinkled pages, and memories tucked away on folded napkins.
And we remember everything you say. The fragments
of your sentences become lines in the invisible poems
already written in our heads.
The ones we love are often our biggest casualties.
Arguments become self-realizations and smiles become confessions.
The ones we love find themselves
intermixed in the thoughts of a narrator
hair and eye color mirroring the antagonist
the words we’ve written hold our biggest secrets.
Even the ones we love know that we write to understand
and these words scribbled, typed, etched, printed
carry our heart’s hidden truths.