you’re the poem I could never write
staying up late, crossing out lines
replacing the hopeful words with disconsolate ones
closing my book, only to return to that page
reading through the lines that made me happy
and mixing in ones that evoke anger
it flows sweet off the tounge with perfect nostalgia and the right rhyme of bitterness
but it’s unfinished, dwelling in it’s uncertain psyche
waiting for more lines to be be added, just so they can be put out of date.