I’m not one for writing about things that are useful
Things that can shape the world
Things that can help someone get on by.

I’m not one for writing about things that are relevant
Because whenever I write
You seem to have that presence.
That kind of presence that tends to etch itself on to the letters written
That kind of presence that tends to draw itself on to paper whenever given
And I hate it.

Hate it because your existence is all I’ll ever think about
Whether I’m busy attending to my own needs
Alone with too many words screaming in my head
Or anywhere in between
Hate it because you are the only one that seems to make it right
That seems to quell the angriest of storms
That seems to bring out the sun when the clouds hide it away
That seems to continuously extend even when I’ve given up reaching
Hate it because I never loved the idea of love

You’d think with all the love poems I’ve written
About how lovely it would be to wake up to your horizon
About how lovely it would be to walk upon sandy material with sea breeze all around
About how lovely it would be with our fingers intertwined
Because we both know yours fits right in between mine
About how lovely it would be with just you and me
That I would somehow love being in love
That my heart grows fonder with every moment spent

But I don’t
Its reckless
Its Foolish
For even the wisest of people grew without a heart.
Because they knew in order to live without pain
They would wish the bonds untwine
For they do not want a “yours” and “mine”

Yet somehow in the midst of being a cold-hearted *****
You found a way to stay and not ditch.
I’m too afraid to admit how deeply in love I am
Because I’m too afraid of losing something I had no idea I had
So please,
Let me let you know,
That I’m not one to write about things that can throw a life line
About things that can get you to say “You’re mine.”
About things that can be of relevance at this time
I’m more about writing about how much of a useless romantic I’ve come to find