You

You.
When I think of Poetry, I think of you. I think of you when I think of love, sadness, heartbreak, remorse, last chances, longing, regret, despair...and hope.
You.
I told you that all my poems are about you, deep down, if you really search for it, you can see your name in small print on every piece of paper I've ever written on. Like the one you threw at me in English when you were bored, crumpled, yet blank, and begging for redemption, so I wrote on it, in less than three minutes, you said,  one on the best things I ever wrote, and you told me you're writing sucks.
You.
I should be over you. That's what they say, that heartaches grow less with each passing day.Why is it only now that the rain tastes bitter to me, like the tears of a thrice widowed woman? And I, the rose that she throws at their graves, like my eternally blank Wikipedia page, where it says: Madeline Fraser, Born: April 8,1998, Married:                                                                                                                                           Because that is one wish I cannot force to come true. I can't even say your name, only..."You"