how foolish of me
to think
late night conversations
could lead to
a sterling amount of love
cascading through me

but all it ever left
was a gaping hole,
stretching itself beyond
to greet the bane's den.

the neverending loop;

stuck-up little poet
thinking it would be
different,
poor little heart;
it had suffered enough,
let it rest.

little girl calling herself
a poet would like to know
what to do
with these memories
of warmth
from her
sun-kissed hand.

« no, no »

how stubborn of me
thinking
i could no longer be
time's fool.