I know it's cruel to think I'm breaking, so selfish and fickle to suggest my youth has run its course on love/luck(?),
even if only for those few moments I sat awake on the corner of your bed.
Your eyes glint and
of the prewritten unrhymed poems I'll scribble on the backs of receipts on the train home that tell me
It is whatever,
but whatever it was certainly wasn't.
You are too kind to notice and I am too kind to care,
it's always the same and I struggle to be that kind
Even still, I wish I could change your mind.