I look at you when it is safe,
and try to pick out
any old semblances of who I
fell in love with.
I see nothing.
Maybe it was all a figment of my imagination,
something I dreamed you to be
and willed it into reality.
That would make much more sense,
considering the fact that
this poem I write could be addressed
to more than one.
I sense a pattern here.
And yet they tell me it is not my fault,
but fool me once,
twice,
three times,
four...
Maybe it really was my fault
and it was never there to begin with.
Maybe it is my fault.