recently I got a little older, learned a lesson or two, like how loving someone could never be as poetic as I wanted it to. like how nothing could ever be as poetic as I want it to. how can I accept that the miracle of love isn’t really a miracle at all? how can I wrap myself in someone’s arms when I know that there isn’t any sort of poetic loving involved. how do I unlearn the romantic thoughts that taught me about the fireworks, the butterflies, and the fluttering fingers in the dark. and accept that maybe kissing won’t be as spiritual as I thought. maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine. how do I unlearn my innocent heart who lulled me into a false sense of hope for a lover who would call the way my body moves art. a lover who would feel the poetry in every word I spoke in the dark.