You are my Poetry

He wrote so deeply and aloud his brokenness to fix together in rhythms of written expression only words could display.
His words pressing fingerprints into his heart, bleeding out peddles of red roses and blistered scars.
To hear those words he cried away,
I wanted nothing more then to hear it, one day.
To open my ears to the sweet sound of swayed wordings,
To be a comfort in the time of his hurting.
But those words they never came,
that desire suddenly washed away.
For a poem of pain,
that became all to gain.
And now, now I sleep restless nights,
wondering what words you will now write,
for your not in sight, and all I want is to hold you tight.
But your not here anymore,
you never should have been here,
but you walked in created hurt,
left and now I am covered in dirt.
saddened and a mess, I write. 
for you are my poetry.