its 2am and im writing you this poem,
you came across my head.
its weird because you usually don’t,
but here i am, writing poetry about you.
2am and im writing this poem.
its just me, my pen, journal, and this empty bed.
i admit, i am not like this — blunt.
i had a sharp tongue but something happened — you.
i remember how your arms became my home,
how we slow danced in the living room which you always led,
i loved how we listened to each other’s rants,
i loved the times that there was only a thing i needed — you.
funny how we’ve grown,
apart but there’s so much ahead.
this is no romantic poetry for my lad
this is my art of letting go of my thoughts of you.
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 8:48 PM UTC
its 2am and im writing you this poem,
you came across my head.
its weird because you usually don’t,
but here i am, writing poetry about you.
2am and im writing this poem.
its just me, my pen, journal, and this empty bed.
i admit, i am not like this — blunt.
i had a sharp tongue but something happened — you.
i remember how your arms became my home,
how we slow danced in the living room which you always led,
i loved how we listened to each other’s rants,
i loved the times that there was only a thing i needed — you.
funny how we’ve grown,
apart but there’s so much ahead.
this is no romantic poetry for my lad
this is my art of letting go of my thoughts of you.
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