There's a picture of you and I
lost between the pages
of this tired and worried
journal that collects
every broken heart and fading word
spilling from my fingertips.
Some nights I need a moment
to take the briefest glance
at those drunken smiling faces
and wonder if it was really real.
Or was your temporary affection
lost between tired bedsheets
and misplaced lust for the week
as I was lost to the want of wanting you.
It's Cliche, this realization,
that pictures are worth a thousand words,
since you never gave me enough to know
and I lack any courage to say something.
So I skip these faded pages and pretend
that chapter of my worn in novel
never really existed,
just as those smiles and glances
were nothing but flights of my imagination
and believe you're just an undefined plothole
existing simply to make life more confusing.
