(untitled)

I set about writing a poem
not for you, but to you.
It was all about us and my feelings
and those nights in your car,
or that time under the bridge,
listening to waves splash and cars go by
underneath the twinkling stars, just before dawn.
Then I crunpled it up and threw it away.

And I started a new poem.
This one was mature, more sophisticated than the last.
I used big words and long words,
and filled the page up with philosophy
and regret.
So I tore up that paper and chucked it
with the other.
What a perfect pair.

Then I took out a marker - blue sharpie - your favorite,
and I wrote on the walls a new poem.
This one was angry and sweet,
dripping with sincerity.
It was pathetic,
it was short,
but it was us.
This one wasn’t about the bridge,
or your car.
Not the park,
or the mall,
but the theatre.
This poem was the moment when I put my head on your body,
and we were happy.
The moment when I squeezed your hand,
and let my tears fall,
and you moved in closer and wiped my face.
The moment when I let my heart crumble on your shoulder
-the movie playing on...