I am easy to love and
easy (very easy) to hate.
I sing you, with my voice, to sleep,
and
your voicemail sings me to sleep.
It evens out. I often say this.
Love isn't the same here.
Love here is full of cigarette smoke and
fruit, kissed by flies before it's ever
touched by my lips.
And yet, for some reason,
I don't miss the love there. I don't
miss the chase, or the brazen looks.
This isn't much of a poem, it isn't
written in the
style
or (as my teacher would say)
with the artistry
of a true poem.
But it is my two minute poem for
you, even though you will
not read it.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
I am easy to love and
easy (very easy) to hate.
I sing you, with my voice, to sleep,
and
your voicemail sings me to sleep.
It evens out. I often say this.
Love isn't the same here.
Love here is full of cigarette smoke and
fruit, kissed by flies before it's ever
touched by my lips.
And yet, for some reason,
I don't miss the love there. I don't
miss the chase, or the brazen looks.
This isn't much of a poem, it isn't
written in the
style
or (as my teacher would say)
with the artistry
of a true poem.
But it is my two minute poem for
you, even though you will
not read it.
