Not another love poem

It's 1am and I'm drinking,
Sitting here trying to convince myself that I should not write another love poem.
When things go sour, those love poems remain etched into my journal, my messages, my novels, my tabletops, my online profile and my soul.

They lie around like satirically ironic reminders of what once was, and either make me feel so stupid for ever writing them or so sick that someone will no longer be reading them because I wasn't ready for it to end.

All those love poems are like the ring I received from my first boyfriend- too precious to throw out, but too taunting to keep.

If I wrote one for you right now, I'd feel like Romeo who I, for one, think was as pretentious as bottled water. Was no one else doubtful of his love confessions to Juliet when just a few scenes prior he had said the very same things about Rosaline? All I could think of his words was that they were nothing more than recycled material he was using because he didn't know any better.

If I wrote you a poem right now, would you merely join the many Rosalines I have written for in the past? Of course I had no intentions of acting like Romeo, but each time I fall I feel I've fallen deeper and I don't even know if I have experienced true love yet.

I could write thousands about your eyes, your voice, your arms around me
But it'd just be another love poem
And I am too scared to let you join the many I've written for people that soon left my life.

Ugh, I just did it again, didn't I?


I wrote another love poem.