Ben Paynter - letter #1

if they ask
what made me
split town, run away
down here,

it wasn't
the November weather
the birds all flying south
how our words became
nothing more than
smoke, a breath
of morning fog, no
nothing so poetic
as that,

this was a new cold
fear, that wrapped
itself around me,
a dark room, a hand
with a steely glint
of knife.

it was the talk
of settling down,
waking up in
the same bed, setting
two forks, two knives,
lighting a candle
for some light.

can't you see
i can't see
more than a piece
of tomorrow, shadows
of yesterday that
made some sense.

if they ask
what made me
split town, run away
down to here
tell them I have not
written enough
mad love poems
to die
by the book.

Ben Paynter

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/letter-1/