The birds didn't chirp today
but I heard them.
It was a quiet symphony,
touching and deep,
I wish you heard them too.
It's just like how you're written
in my woeful poetry,
hanging silently between my verses.
Sometimes it gives me chills.
Your presence is so loud
but only I can listen.
It lingers.
You, a person
selfish, ignorant
and happy.
But in my words
you're a mere thought
selfless, shy
full of misery.
Sometimes you're sensitive
but mostly you lack rhythm,
out of order and senseless.
Today, was silent. I wrote little of you.
The birds, they didn't chirp again,
and I still hear them,
but you,
you don't care either way.
