I like to pretend.

A poem died inside of me
A little while ago
Written by that little bird
Who lives inside my heart

And I like to pretend
That it was never there at all
I like to pretend
That I'm still alive
Without it

I like to pretend
That I can ever write another like it
Myself

That it doesn't echo back at me
Through the aching in my bones
That it doesn't croak
Like the worn-out stairs
of regret

But I know
More than well
That I am still shedding its ashes
through my tears
And I know
More than well
It never really died
To begin with

But
it's easier to say it did
And it's easy because
No one really asks about it
Anymore

Except the little bird who wrote it
Withering away
In its early tomb
Buried beneath the lifeless life
I've used to ignore its chirps

I like to pretend
I've forgotten the mellifluous voice
That used to lull me to sleep

I like to pretend
But I'm not very good at it
And neither are you.