“Have you written about me yet?”  you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.

But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.

I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.

I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.

Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.

You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide ugly things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.

“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.