I tell myself I hate that you started this
While I’m waiting for you to ask about it
“You write poetry?”
“I just write”
“Maybe someday you’ll let me read them”
That is the moment
I started to fall
That is the moment
I will always regret
Or at least this is what I say to myself.
I want to find that door
But I’m afraid that even then I won’t open it
Tell me
When will I let you go



Actually, don’t answer.