Maybe we can all forget, start over?
Maybe we can go back?
Maybe we can run, be who we want?
I have no clue.

But you still say it.
Perhaps.
Perhaps the wounds we bear can never heal.
Perhaps all we can do is hold eachother as we die off.


Perhaps you still entice me, make me see you as the most beautiful creature ever.
But there's a problem, men aren't beautiful. I am not talking about that.
Every pore, every curve, every color and vein your skin contains fascinates me.
Perhaps our writing has died together.
Or perhaps you are lying to yourself, and perhaps you will come back.
Because you can not void this part of you.
Poetry is magic, music, and, every syllable, a part of you now.

Tell me?