He isn't wishful paper cranes,
or Paris dreams during cold
Autumn nights. He isn't You.
But, he's trying so hard to
make me forget [ you you you… ]
like pressed flowers hidden
between the bindings of
unfinished books, placed
at the top of dusty shelves.
His eyes are supernovas,
dead and lonely.
They don't sparkle like
your blue ocean irises.
But…He loves me.
I can feel it through
shy smiles and the way
he touches me with
gentle artist fingers.
[ He makes
me want to write
p o e t r y. ]
