Must you cling to all the dead things
as if they were your treasure
and see me still as
something entirely
other than who
I am?

I wrote you another poem once
trying to wash your eyes
clean so you could see
rainbow colors, life
and me and who
you are.

You didn't get it. Or pretended
not to know all you knew
as the years rolled by
and I grew old, left
to remember alone who
we were.

I didn't get it. Or pretended
to not know all I did not know
as the years rolled by
and you again found
yourself forgetting who
I am.

Must I cling to all the dead things
as if they were my treasure
and see you still as
something entirely 
other than who
you are?