The number of letters or poems I write to you
Are insignificant.
You’ll never read them.
Never know of their existence.
Yet, for some unexplained reason
I still write them.
Maybe there’s a secret Optimist
Hidden deep within me
That’s still rooting for you.
Hoping that maybe at this moment
You actually are reading this.
That maybe this whole catastrophe
Was just a misunderstanding.
Maybe.
Maybe one day
You’ll look at me the same way you used to.
And maybe you’ll hold my hand again.
The gentle way your hand cradled mine.
Just maybe.
I wrote a song for you,
That some day you might hear it on the radio
As you drive down the dirt roads
In your light blue Mustang that I loved.
Finding it catchy, drumming your fingers
Along to it on the leather steering wheel.
Your head would bob in a rhythmic beat
And maybe, just maybe,
You’ll think of me.
Of what we had.
Of what could have been.
These are the dangerous thoughts of an Optimist.
Scrawled upon a piece of loose notebook paper
In the middle of class.
I hide this Optimist deep within the many layers of myself,
As She takes these thoughts with Her.
Maybe one day, She and those silly ideas
Will be consumed in the surrounding darkness.
It would be better off for Her anyways.
This world is not kind to Optimists.