I always said i couldn't write poetry about you
because i can't write poetry about happy things
good feelings don't hold as much depth
i should've known that eventually there would be a poem
that our sadness would seep into everything.
It was my birthday. 18/01.
and my gift from you was a beautifully crafted poem
something better than a material item
it was something that made me feel seen
a realisation that you do indeed perceive me, and in the best possible way.
Then your birthday passed
it slipped my mind
as if i didn't already feel inadequate
i thought again that i could not write you a poem
because i cannot write poetry about good things
and that in itself transformed the good into something bad
silence and hurt
i let it slip right through my fingers
now i'm sitting here feeling more alone than ever
it's not exactly poetry, but it comes from my soul
all i can think about is how i should have just written you that damn poem
