Your poems starts sounding differently.
It starts sounding goodbye.
Your poems does not talk about the last movie we've watched together with popcorn
and sodas in your couch.
It does not talk about how the sunrays pass your see-through curtain as I whisper you good morning with sleepy voice, and sleepy smiles.
It no longer talks about how we spend
the rest of the night gazing stars,
tracing constellations until the sun rise.
Your poems no longer talks about
my scent on your bed and
the sound of my voice.
It no longer talks about our love.
I miss the way
your poems
look like me.
I miss
your poems
talking about me
and being
in the form
of me.