I’m not go
ing to write four you. you’ve
got your misteries,
eternet ease you dream too. sometimes
I am all alone and you dream real,
but, I’m pretending you’re just hateful.
why
should I remember when we
walked to allston in the dark,
looking for the moon,
and, I’m back too soon.
why should I pretend.
why should I pretend?
I’m not going to tell you
you’re so beautiful,
it’s you who told me.
when we wished inside a star
I never held you,
now I’m paying,
now I pay, you take my heart
and all I say is,
“are you lonely?”,
what’s your life like, are you
lonely too…?
I’m indecent, I’m depressive,
I’ve never said
how much I only
lived for you,
loved like you,
wanted to be you.
hope is a butterfly,
why do they wing? flowing like caataforms,
somersault, and when will the moon
stop rhyming?
iris and icicles,
melting in tremors:
avalanche of snow balls,
falling so gentle before the monsoon. hitting
sleigh white
night lights, shadows in alleys, men in their rooms.
I’m not go
ing to write the novel of anyone,
I’ve never been one.
my poetry is soot falling,
washed through the hands of a
fake Buddhist nun. and, if I sing this, and
call it a friendship we once had,
laugh at me
and I’m gone.
poetryandpoet 