it's 12:44 in the morning, which I guess really makes it 0:44am but I can only remember our argument over whether 24 beats 12. justification became second nature in dialogue not anything agreeable seemed to come out from our words. then again if agreeability was something I could relate too, i wouldn't be writing poetry. at least i sound somewhat honest. its relatable i know that much, it's rare not to find someone who hasn't  

spent the nights and mornings thinking about regrets- except you of course- and I'm hoping that this will be some sort of exorcism as i didn't let the frankenstien friendship die in my heart like it did in yours.

I'm still listening to the songs.
I'm still learning the words.
I'm still singing them by myself.
*so did anything really change.

I will write the poetry that could have saved
Me.

i saw two lovers on the Underground.
who's entwined arms
held the carriage aloft.
who's secret smiles
lit the tunnel as if the Sun
had broken through the Earth.
and whispers
cut through the brakes
like a knife through my heart.
i did not know such love existed.
i do not know if i am meant to share.

i saw two lovers on the Underground
and it made me question
is my love fair?

i have found to be at my
most me
on an empty bus home
sitting lonely.

from the second floor seats
i get to gaze on empty streets
closing shops
clubs
sometimes homes.
i wonder if they can see me.

writing poetry
on my way home
in an empty bus
sometimes wishing
i wasn't alone.