I would give anything to change five minutes of one morning in July. I would give anything to have been the one that you made cry instead of the other way around. I would give anything to be border bound on a long drive back to the life I picked for myself over the course of the best year of my life. I would do anything. Anything at all. But my words have failed me. As they have failed you. Every conversation makes me feel like a fraud. I can’t seem to find a single word that is true in the many conversations I’ve had hiding the tears behind the buttons on my cell phone from you. I am sprawled out now. Sacraficed to my own ideas about what love is and what it should have been. Redefining the definition of “lie” to sound more like the definition of “End”. I would have dipped my sharpened bones into my fermented blood and scrawled love poems on the stretched hide of my skin if it would bring you back. But my words have failed me. My pen to. Just as much as my loving completely is the way that this love failed you. So be it.

I am a love poet.

That is all.

So.

I guess I am no longer a poet at all.

Just be careful next time. Try not to leave anyone else broken in your wake. Crying the kind of tears that no one is able to fake. Hmm. I wish my last words to you had been different. That would have been easier to take. But the truth is the truth. And I thought you should know.You don’t play a guitar when you want to learn the piano.

So, the rest of this game is chalked up to a loss. I see in grey now. Things are not so bright. I have a greater affinity for smokes in the dark than I do for a smile in the light. Love is a sham. It is a sucker bet. A fake. A waste. I am running out of hope these days and clinging on to faith. And I turn to him and ask with all the wind left in my sails, why the greatest inaccuracy of his words had to be, “Love never fails.”

So, in one powerful explosion I will reclaim everything I gave to you.

The promises, the future, the love, and my words.

By force if I have to.

You see. I was on the verge of surrender. My ink to run dry resolving myself to poetry being a lie. Because they couldn’t move you back to me. But that is my fault. My own brand of idiocy.

A new direction lies in my ink now. A new kind of word.

If my words can no longer make you love. Then perhaps they can hurt you.

Fuck you.

Fuck you for taking my words, my eyes, my hands, my breath…

And wanting my time too.

¶ 5:04 PM