You’re just a poem now.
Not a person.
Not a promise.
Not the boy who made my heart sit up straight
whenever you walked into the room.
Just a string of syllables I rearrange
when the silence gets too loud.
You’re just a poem now.
Not the ache in my ribs when you smirked
like we shared a secret,
not the heat in my cheeks
when your eyes said stay,
when mine said I already did.
You don’t get to be that anymore.
You’re just a poem now.
Lined up like lies in stanzas,
pinned to pages you’ll never read.
I turned your name into metaphor
so I could burn it without guilt.
I made you rhyme with mistake,
with heartbreak,
with "never again."
You’re just a poem now.
Tamed by ink,
softened by rhythm,
safe in the distance between
what we were
and what we’ll never be again.
You’re just a poem now.
And I?
I’m the poet.
I write.
I erase.
I move on.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 10:25 AM UTC
You’re just a poem now.
Not a person.
Not a promise.
Not the boy who made my heart sit up straight
whenever you walked into the room.
Just a string of syllables I rearrange
when the silence gets too loud.
You’re just a poem now.
Not the ache in my ribs when you smirked
like we shared a secret,
not the heat in my cheeks
when your eyes said stay,
when mine said I already did.
You don’t get to be that anymore.
You’re just a poem now.
Lined up like lies in stanzas,
pinned to pages you’ll never read.
I turned your name into metaphor
so I could burn it without guilt.
I made you rhyme with mistake,
with heartbreak,
with "never again."
You’re just a poem now.
Tamed by ink,
softened by rhythm,
safe in the distance between
what we were
and what we’ll never be again.
You’re just a poem now.
And I?
I’m the poet.
I write.
I erase.
I move on.