don't let march pass by
it was a silly crush, i thought.
but then, hours, days, and weeks passed,
and i found myself eagerly waiting for the circle
beside his profile picture to turn green.
was it truly just a silly crush?
because i've etched it into my mind
the way he walks,
the shape of his back,
and how the winds refuse
to muss his hair.
is it still merely a silly crush
when every 10 o'clock
i find myself waiting by the window
for his visit?
tell me,
is it still just a silly crush
when the pages of my poetry notebook
are filled with thoughts of him?
it's as if the pages of my notebook
know him better than i do.
YOU ARE READING
the tortured poet's tortured love
PoetryDear Maia, Early morning bird songs, The poet, she'll never feel clean. Mon chéri, what a devastating beauty. When a poet falls in love, The weeping willow bears witness to it all. She will love, she will cry, she will love again, and she will cry...
