he collected me
once every piece
and shaped my edges
for him to fit me in

and then when he left
returning those parts of me

it no longer fit
the way
it used to be

maybe you were in love with those conversation we shared by the balcony while staring at the sky

or maybe you were in love with those sweet messages i sent you as soon as i wake up

or maybe you were in love with those poems i wrote for you specially when you are feeling blue

maybe you were in love of the idea of me being there

maybe you were in love with those,

but never with me.

do you love
when you are ready
or just whenever
love is there?

"why are you writing
poems and prose?"
asked a guy out of nowhere
while staring at my pen

"to breathe."
I answered with a smile

for writing lets me indulge
with metaphors and similes

it is my escape
the key toward my fantasies

i wonder
how terrible
things are going
around your mind
that you are able
to write those pieces
so heartbreaking
yet so beautiful

you are not asking for too much
no, you are not
maybe he is just not the right person
because the right one for you
will go even through the depths of hell
just to give you whatever he can
and he will love you
so much
that you will regret
asking your past
the least he can give.

i loved
comparing you
to sunsets
but now i am afraid
that i did

for sunsets
are portraits
of beautiful endings--

and ours was nothing to keep