an attempt at poetry

chapter 8: 'all the poems I read talk about love...'

All the poems I read talk about love,

How it feels,

What it looks like

I'd be lying to myself if I said I understood it,

As I've never either,

Felt it,

Or known what it is,

Though,

I still envy the character who's swept of her feet by another,

And I'm enchanted by the smell of the roses my friend was given after a stressful day,

I also dream of those evenings by the sun with my 'significant other' that only happen in the summer,

I guess then that love is a stranger to me,

Whereas its idea is my dearest friend,

Which may be because I'm no longer free,

In between all the videos and texts all my friends send,

I find myself in the background at the end of the day,

Always the viewer,

Never the viewed,

So I guess I could say,

I truly do know love,

As I've been falling in it all along

With only what it could ever be,

Never with what is in front of me.

-b.o.p.