I never liked being the muse
Never cared to be the subject of your poetry
You'd call me your "first" love
but you weren't even one of mine
and for that I'm sorry because I was always just looking for a heart to break when I was bored
That summer I was bored often
You were rough with your poems
Telling me of the adventures we would have upon meeting but I was thankful there was an ocean between us
And I was gentle with every rejection of the words "I love you"
You were too small-town for New York
I went there alone
And Paris for lovers? Cliche
Each day you would spend time
Writing down everything you adored about me
And I showered you in false appreciation
That summer I was bored often
And I'm sorry you were my form of entertainment
You refer to me as your "first" love
But you are not even one of mine
( b.n )