This is somehow sad and beautiful
I realized no one has missed me
or my words as I faded from the poetry scene
silently as I arrived.
No one noticed I was gone
no one knocking at my door
or requesting anything of me.
I had settled into my life before
where poems rushed out
because I would die if they stayed;
no longer writing to be seen
or heard, after so many years of invisibility.
I miss them sometimes,
the writers and the connection
and the sense I belonged
to something greater than myself.
Most of them are in the same place I left them,
huddled in a café reading or putting out meager books.
No one has made it
like we all dreamed we would.