most day I’d rather be the poem

than the poet. I’d rather sit

silently than run. I thought I

wouldn’t use my logic with you

but even after seven days

you still critique the way I shine.

Some days I’m too brilliant,

other days too dull, some days

I throw my meals out and order in.

Most times you love me raw.

I have to run into you everywhere I go

I hate that. I love that.

even after seven years and three

breakups you still write about me.

I never thought you looked up

when you jogged by

but I was never one to think

that way. My tidy soul

is restless for your rubdowns.

My insecurities are explosive

it’s that Greek temper, it is.

I blame the gods, and the

ocean for sucking me into

their realm. The message was

you are both the poem

and the poet and I swear

that is the best thing

any stranger commented

about me without knowing me.

I may have heard it before

I may have even written down

perhaps I tweeted it. I don’t

remember much anymore.

It is just the days are mine now

and I own them. The nights

are not, they are yours.

24 thoughts on “the poem

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