i’m sorry i wrote about you.
i’m sorry i tried to immortalize you by placing your existence
in my heart and having it bleed out in black ink.
i’m sorry i fell in love with you.
i’m sorry i made you feel inspired and desirable, when you have
someone who probably loves you very much waiting for you
every night when you get home.
i’m sorry we can’t be together.
even though you haven’t made a decision yet, the silence between us
tells me all i need to know.
you’ll choose her.
you’ll always choose her.
i’m sorry i wrote about you.
even though i’m not, really
when i say that it’s more of an apology to myself
for letting your presence completely dismantle
any idea i’ve ever had about love.
don’t pick up the pieces. leave me scattered.
this is my mess to mend.
you’re on a never-ending racetrack
with no real intention of stopping for anything, let alone
a heartless hitchhiker like me, waiting for you
to put your life on the brakes.
i get it.
i’m a meaningless distraction,
a pleasant diversion,
a secret flower you keep hidden underneath all
the things you’re too afraid to say.
i will never be more than that.
i get that now.
well i’m sorry,
but my thumb is getting tired.
from now on, i think
i’ll walk home.