seventy days of ambiguity
with just enough put forth to confuse me
as to the nature of your intentions
so fleeting your shows of affection
and so vague your reactions to my own
that it left me no better off
even after i let you read that first poem
trying to figure out if i had a chance with you or not
might as well have been trying to read a long dead language without the benefit of a rosetta stone
and surprising absolutely no one
the result is that i am once again on my own
the victim of an opportunist who saw
that my heart's capacity for love is my fatal flaw
and chose to exploit it with no thought or regard
to how it might effect me, how it might raise my guard
because trusting does not come easy to me
and vulnerability scares me more than anything
so for you to just use and abuse me
has caused more damage to my heart than just a sting
and i will recover, of that i am sure
but you, to me, you will always be
it is this simple and pure
nothing more than another one who hurt me
and someday, maybe, you'll be able to see
exactly what it was you did to me
and render something more than some half-assed apology
but i won't hold my breath
because i have a feeling i'd be waiting til long after my death