I love you.

And as many times as it’s almost come out of my mouth, attached to a “good night"or a “good morning…have a good day,” it doesn’t get past my lips.

A couple of times, I thought that maybe in the midst of my sleep I had mumbled it to you…and that maybe you heard my quiet confession. But you’ve never let on.
And you should know. By now you should know.

Recently,
her mind is
debating
with her heart
resenting
every word
she wasted
on this paper
and all the metaphors
you haven't even decipher
but how
can she stop it
you have brought her up
to the top
then pushed her
to this
bottomless pit
now
she's stuck
in this drop
and it's growing
big
like
a bad habit
running
like
a mad rabbit
munching
on her thoughts
of you
while trying to
remove your face
off the view
like grime
on her tiled walls
made by
endless waterfalls
of whys and what ifs
and all her selfish beliefs
like
how you will read
her poetry
and chew the words
like sticky pastry
but her mind said
"you're wasting your ink"
she should stop writing
poems about you
and let her
memories
sink
in the letters
of your name
that are scattered
in her head
all printed
in heavy lead
therefore now,
she concluded,
the real dilemma,
to wake her up
in this coma
of dreams of you
and
find
a paper
that will reach miles
across the equator



-I Should Stop Writing Poems About You, Margaret Austin Go

The bath water
is the colour of my eyes;
yet, I don't know
which is wetter.