Letters to Yesterday

I wrote your name on folded sheets,

then watched the ink bleed softly out

across the margins of my days,

erasing every trace of doubt.

You were the book I read too fast,

the passage memorized in haste,

and now upon this autumn shelf,

a bittersweet and hollow taste.

I do not ask for yesterday,

nor curse the hour you walked away;

I only thank the wounded heart

that learned to beat another day.