this moment has arrived
the moment that i've been waiting for
the moment when i can put my pen to paper
and have words flow like blood through dilated vessels
pumped by adrenaline
pushing like if they didn't make it onto the pages
they'd get left behind
forever unrecorded
existence denied
And it's all about you.
you who i have learned to love then hate
you who i have come to dread seeing then gradually forget about
i first thought i would get over you
when i can start writing about you
then thought i would really get over you
when i can stop writing about you
But i was just buying time even though i couldn't afford to.
the irony is by the time i could write
i could no longer write to you
and maybe i can write poetry
hand-craft words and arrange them into a symphony
but what's the use when they're exposed
bare for public peruse
and not flesh and blood, wholly and delicately
dedicated to you and you only?
maybe that's why it never ends
because i can't ever fully pretend
that you have fogotten about me entirely
or accept the fact that i still think about you sometimes
maybe you do me too
but i won't know if it's true
because i never ask
and i never hear from you anymore