THE POET

I wish I could have loved him,

But I’m fickle. 

He bleed emotion 

Through too many pens. 

Ink spilling on paper, 

He opens up his chest, 

Let’s the ocean in, 

And writes a hundred words 

About life and love and longing. 

.

I could have let him love me

But I’m fickle 

And not selfish enough 

To allow myself to be loved 

By someone I don’t deserve. 

.

Maybe some day 

I’ll pry my chest open 

With a crowbar 

And go for a swim. 

But until then, 

Fare he well.