I want the world to know
how in love with you
I am.
But you do not.
You do not love me
the way
I love
you.
You love me the way a
sad girl
loves rain.
And even though
that sounds poetic,
being loved like a withering rose
is not
Poetic.
I am not meant
to be
dried, and stuck between
pages of your book.
Only to be drowned out by
the rain.
YOU ARE READING
2:00 A.M.
PoetryThe moons out, I have a pen in hand. I wish I were writing the stars down by name, but these are only thoughts. Thoughts I like to call poems. ⭐
