Maybe I got sick
of innocent poems,
sinless poetry,
sweet phrases,
and white words.
Maybe I got sick
of faked feelings,
covered up's,
butterflies
in the stomach,
and fluttery.
Maybe I got sick
of purity,
scripted love,
scribbled letters,
and everything nice.
And maybe I got lost
when you blew
smoke of addiction;
cigarettes and coffees,
cheeks turning berries,
and matured poetries.
Maybe you're more
sentimental
than my scenes
of troubled up's,
now or never,
list of lovers,
histories,
and everything nice.
Maybe I got sick
and lost
at the same time
when we knew
we shared
the same interests;
photographs
and fading colors,
handwritten letters
and familiar signatures,
arts and interpretations,
and we,
and us.
Maybe I got lost
remembering
the midnight
talks and old selves,
remembering
you're just
an uninvited
listener,
remembering
how you became
the manifestation
of beauty,
love,
and perfection.
