I had a poem for you,
It was written in ink,
On a beautiful paper,
And I carried the paper in my back pocket.
It was beautiful too,
And not vague, or vain,
As most are.
It started with lines of hope,
And then lines of despair followed,
And then, when hope and despair were done,
Line and lines and lines of anxiety followed.
It was devastatingly beautiful,
How all these emotions made love to each other,
I imagined once you read the poem,
Us too, could imitate their love.
But hope, despair and anxiety are not romantic,
It was only reasonable that lust should be in the mix,
But lust cannot exist without desire,
And desire without attraction.
It felt wrong,
The whole poem.
Us making love.
Beautiful, but wrong.
So before I reached you,
I tore the paper apart,
And the ink cried with hope, and despair and anxiety,
And I let my tears flow with it.