How do you stop loving someone
On a random Tuesday night?
Under the stars where you swore
You saw something in his eyes,
How did you stop loving him on a Tuesday night?
Quick, quick,
Speak up.
You talk as though
All the love you gave,
You gave alone.
Did he ever know?
I doubt he ever did.
I don’t know if
I should apologize
Or reframe my own
Hatred towards myself.
Sure, the poems I wrote for him
Are the clues of a love
That once existed,
Once lived.
Remnants of a flower
Now wilted.
But I can’t say
I’m a saint.
We are the writers
Of our own
Fucked-up stories.
There’s a reason I
Call myself catastrophic.
My feelings bloomed;
He smashed them apart.
And now, as I look away,
Finding the muse in someone else,
I’ve become the villainess
In his story.
But I’m glad—
I left my feelings
Somewhere in the desert,
Far enough that I can’t see them.
On a random Tuesday night.
The only trace of the
Web of love
I once wove for him
Is my poetry.
So now I say:
So long to you.
Go sail somewhere at sea
And find your muse.
I’m off to my
Journey in the woods,
And forevermore,
My words will live on.
YOU ARE READING
Skeletal Poet's Sonnents
ПоэзияInvisible Lockets July 5th, Under the pine tree, Filling my lungs with butterflies Of your smile And sandal whispers of the ground. I must be the foolish one, Seeking for love When the cupid's arrow Struck striaght in my heart. So in love I...
