I now understand Kait Rokowski's words: "Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends, and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was always just red."

When you ended things, I couldn’t stop writing about you.
Every poem, every story carried the weight of us.
I wrote about the way your touch lingered,
About the taste of your lips,
How we were two imperfect puzzles fitting perfectly.
I wrote about how my world was bland before you arrived, vivid when...