no matter how many poems i write about a girl who loved a boy,
i always end my day, staring at the infinite skies above with the mere question: "why am i still not good enough for you?"

and then i realized,
maybe all of these poems made by my mind and hand,
were all about
me and you

although there's no exactly
me and you,
it was an endless possibilities of "what ifs" or "maybes"
and the question: "am i good enough for him?"