I’m sorry I tore you down,
like some beautiful Victorian church
in the middle of a noisy city
that needed a little hope, a little faith,
a little magic from which people like you are made
I never meant to hurt you.
I can’t swallow what I put you through,
it remains stuck in my throat like mucus or something,
sometimes I wish I could go back.
Back to the days in which you and I laid,
harmlessly next to each other in bed, sharing poems,
inhaling smoke, we distanced ourselves from the truth,
from our attraction, our curiosity, we were so hopeless and young,
you were so in love with me, and I was so callous.
Together, honestly we spoke,
and the smoke,
dusty and rising,
created a cloud, illusion,
we lived here,
all I gave you were words,
all I did was hold in the smoke,
only to blow it back in your face
so you’d be equally as damaged as I.
You deserved the world,
instead you got a rain check,
rusty lungs that felt better
when you swallowed your words
instead of speaking them,
you feared that they’d bleed
even though I practically fed you razors….
I apologized to everyone
except for you,
and you were the only one
Who ever deserved those two pathetic words from me.
I understand that it’s been years since I toyed with your emotions,
but your heart gave out for years because of me
and all I can do is write you poems
that you might one day read,
so you know that a day doesn’t go by
without you on my mind.