Not A Love Letter
To my poetry that once was:
I hurt my fingers playing with the jagged splinters of your timber -- you made my blood meet paper one too many times, and while I still do not rue that fact, I have yet to heal from the gashes left on my arms from when you sliced through my existence and vanished into thin air. Gone.
To my poetry that never was:
You are wrapped in a cloak sewn of the yarn of hopes I once almost birthed to life -- my naïveté has yet to leave me, and so has your shadow.
To my poetry that never will be:
I'd recognise you at first sight if you walked inside the room, pin-striped jumpsuit with a red bow tie and all -- I know you better than I'll ever dare to admit out loud.
To my poetry that never spoke:
I have never blamed you for all the times you failed to tumble past my lips -- all the moments you spent curled up on my tongue, trembling in the dark. It's okay. You are not alone.
To my poetry that never listened:
You have some nerve strutting in, wanting a verse in your favour after all the wounds you've inflicted with such careless abandon before leaving and disentangling into nothing, like a magician's routine act -- we meet in a different setting, a different time and yes, I embrace you, mutatis mutandis, once again.
To my poetry that is:
I do not love you, but there is little else to admire about the illegible scribblings worked by my hand and the battered rhymes that never look past the spine of my notebook, so I have learned to settle for you just as you have often done for me.