This is not a love poem

Because you could, if you wanted

send giggles down the back of my throat

Giggles that - I could, if i wanted

show you

because you make me happy

and I am often sad

And I am often giggling because I am sad

but no one knows

 

Someone once told me that I reminded her of a game

I believe it is called "hide and seek"

i asked her if I was a lot of fun

but she told me that I was boring

boring -

in a predictable way

in a - I think "you are the patterns on floor tiles that go on unnoticed way"

in a - I think "people step on you without you realizing" way

in a - time to break out of all your old habits way

in a -

I,

I,

"I think you are no longer good enough for me anymore" way

 

When she left

I wanted to tell her that I never thought i was boring

because the one before her told others that I was a fun game to play

(and I won that game)

and the one before her who was before her told me that she liked my eyes

and the way I have them fixated on the things that I like for

so long

she said i was faithful and being faithful is so strong

(I was not her Hercules)

 

I have always been an iron rod

that people want to put down

when it gets too heavy

 

This is not a poem

Although I started the first stanza wanting to write you one

I started it wanting to tell you how you could

part the oceans of my soul and find your undisturbed rest at the bottom below

where life is a pit of darkness and I hide to many secrets

but you can have all of them

because you are my best kept one

 

This is not a confession

Although I wanted to tell you how the butterflies they speak of are often overrated

and it underestimates the way  I fell about the universe and the entire insect kingdom

when i watch your lips part to tell me that you "will never change me"

Because you understood that you could not save someone who enjoys drowning so much as I

and so you got a float and bought us tickets to the dead sea

I am still writing your thank-you note

 

I am never good with explaining pretty things

I turn my sweet notes and gestures into a diary of pain

where i jot the memories that make me and connect them like the constellations in the sky - that no

one bothers to reflect on because it gets so damn dark

I am afraid I might never be able to write you something beautiful

although you are the sun that paints my day gold

but if you would take this poem

that is not a poem

and carry it like you understood

You could have my last line

 

You could write my last line

 

 

Copyright  of Jane  ℒoo

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