i found a drawing you did
of me dated 12-22-11, three
days before Christmas, and
wouldn't you know, i wanted
to rip it out and let the rain
smudge the pencil and not
touch it at all, all at the same
time because chances are, bits
of you were still on that page
and apparently i'm not ready
to get rid of you entirely.

I want to, so I won't
I'm not good enough,
I'm sorry,
eh, it's alright.

i thought i saw you at the
coffee shop today, it even
looked like you from behind
calves placed flatly on the
stool bars, hunched shoulders
in a faded blue t-shirt and tan
khakis, this person wouldn't
look at me, turned his head
so far left, and let his hat do
the talking, I can't be sure it
wasn't you, i'm playing it
off as a joke, but my lungs
are in my stomach, my heart
clear down in my knees, if
that was you, why wouldn't
you say anything to me?

I still don't
like calling you my
ex, because you're
still a q-r-s-t-u anything
but v-w-x-y-z.

Love is an art.

And I can barely
draw you a stick figure.

am i still your
rose or just another,
one of the many who
blushed in lieu of the
little prince's words.