Every Page I Wrote You Were On It

Every page I wrote you were on it Not as a name but as a feeling. You lived in my poetry, In between the sentences, On every page of my journal I never showed anyone I wrote of skies, of wounds, of art Yet somehow, you were in every part Not as a name, but as a scar, A distant light, a dying star I tried to write a life anew, But every story led back to you Maybe you were the language, My heart learned first And now I see, with quiet regret, Every page I wrote belonged to you, Not me, not yet