How is it possible to love him
So tenderly and to
Think of him every day
And for him to not think of me
At all.
In fact, I am almost certain,
He un-thinks me.
I am not good enough
And I make a mess of it
When I try.
All I do is think and dream
And write sickly poetry
That has no poetic credibility.
Just thinking about people
Who would prefer it if
I did not exist.
What sort of life is this?
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
