falling out of love was easy.
all you had to do was make a call,
break a heart,
find someone new.
i guess that’s only if you fall out at all. i guess i'm still waiting for that.
i've been waiting for a while.
longer than it feels and shorter than I tell myself
i have a fear that i’ll be waiting to fall out of love with you when i have canyons in my face from age and broken legs from climbing up this mountain.

you can't tell people that your heart isn't the only thing broken.
bedsides from just being damaged goods, they've heard all your songs before. they're tired of it. "move on, change the station please, this melody is making me carsick. you've had your time to mourn."
everyone had their fair share of breaking. nobody cares.

and no one cares about poetry. no one cares that a poet cries when they think about daffodils or that they feel physical pain in their chest when they think about what wasn't meant to be but it happened anyway.
a poet writes for themselves, and how selfish is that? they consider others only when their chest stops hurting and expectations boil in their brain.