Untitled Poem

The first words every computer speaks to me are always "Untitled page". Therefore, my poetry which I have inked with the delicate Ripples off time and tide is, undoubtedly untitled Although my poems do not speak much about you, I must confess that I often wish that I could remove the memories Of the way you brushed clean the titles of my numerous poems with ease And renamed them with the magic that you exclusively owned. And which I decidedly loathed. For example, I remember the time when I had spent the best part of a long weekend Stealthily swirling down music and poetry into a mass of emotions And had finally named it after the veiled mysteries of the stories that I used to hear as a child You opened the door and stomped in, bringing a flurry of snow and activity Into the quiet room Walking over to where I sat reposing, you leaned over With all the warmth of the weather soaking into my clothes, and Traced down the words presiding over the scribbled page "The Safest Harbour at Sea?" you asked with the inquisitiveness of a five-year-old My poem was about a void with only emptiness and absence given shape, fraught with beautiful dangers and emotions You rubbed off the charcoal from the parchment And called my poetry "Empty". Dear, that word so resembled your thoughts. Empty and disappointing as a latte without coffee after a sleepless night Well, now that you're gone, here's a verse titled untitled Something that is way below what your stardust dreams are made up of.