it's an odd sensation
to wonder if we've ever met...
because of course we have.
the last time i counted, i had
nearly three dozen poems
written about you.
you weren't even my love.
i wasn't even your friend.
and it burns a bit too bright,
like the lamp by my bedside,
like my eyes after too much screen time,
like my skin after a cigarette.
i doubt you even think of me.
i was just a case to be studied,
so of course, it's easier to forget.
it's much more forgiving
to flag you as a delusion,
a sad attempt at desire,
than to realize you stood for
everything i couldn't give.
