It took me almost a week to be able to fully grasp,
you were my boyfriend.
You were mine to talk to,
to hold and cradle right there in my heart,
a fragile glass cup to hold onto
and to never let go off.
I kept you there,
filled you up with my thoughts, my feelings, everything.
I gave it everything.
Even in times where I had nothing left to give,
where I was so busy I couldn't even breath,
I gave you 24 hours.

Now, I guess,
it will take me a month or more to let you go.
'Cause no matter how hard I try to drop
this intricate glass cup that I hold on for dear life to,
but yet so delicately and softly,
the ******* cup won't fall from my hands.
I can't drop it and run away,
nor can I let go at all.
Smashing it didn't work. Nothing is working.
You have stopped filling it up
with the ambrosia we call "selfies" and "texts"
undeserving words for this succulent and rich flavor
that once filled my cup.
All I have left are a few sips,
and with my greed,
I drink it all up.
The bottom is now my enemy, and it
glares at me mockingly.
I look away and try to release my terse grip on this
this last piece of you...

You have smashed my cup that I gave to you,
emptied it of your smiles, your texts, late night love notes.
It was left on a desk,
and you walked away.
Because you are that type of guy.
You wouldn't hurt me.
No one hurts me.
I hurt myself.

One pen aflame,
an inkwell the same.
Two poets
in
Love,
A dangerous game.