It’s All in My Head.

It’s a disease,
These flashbacks of warm summer evenings,
A poem of small details,
Which only belongs to me.

The way you spoke,
Your fingers holding the cigarette to your lips,
The look in your eyes,
Which I believed to be meaningful.

Your arms wrapped around me,
Was a promise of love,
Or so I thought,
Before you bluntly cast me aside.

My lips could not utter words,
For I loved you too much,
Yet you mistook this for dullness of character,
Sharply telling me so.

I still dream of what could have been,
If only you would have realized,
That I could have made you immortal,
If I could have put my love into words.


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