my mind
knows
it’s done,
we’re over.

yet,
my heart
still beat,
it seeks

—for you

I might've shoved you off
but lately you're the only one
I'm thinking of
this morning I could barely
get out of bed
after last night's
cry I've shed

so I pinky swear to you
to not ever mess with you
(again)

I am a bee that stung you
little do you know, I've died inside too

nights became longer
songs became sadder
you became colder
and I've became sober
after "we" became over.

you came to me,
and told a poem
you've wrote for me

i didn't like it
for it lacked
some kind of wit
that i was finding

another fellow came to me
and wrote the same kind of
poetry

i loved it, not because
it's lovely
but because his looks
were charming

i brushed you off
not knowing why
for maybe i was being
sly

i got too busy looking
at facades to later
then be filled with awes
when i should be looking
at the innermost that i
could live to be engrossed

to see you now
writing poems, which are good
to read utmost
but those words that are written
aren't for me no more