You asked for reason to live, I said I can’t be. You asked for reason to suffer, I never wanted to be because all I ever knew was kindness. You asked for space in the heart, my heart wasn’t full yet I couldn’t lend Some Space to you. You explain how much of homeless you are, nothing touched me. Not ever.
I don’t have feelings for you. Neutral I am. You aren’t the poem I would fall for; you aren’t the sound of sonnet or ukulele. You aren’t rhythm or the stanza, long they could be. You keep on asking for compassion, I can’t love everyone. For my love is long gone. You insisted to stay, I couldn’t say NO. A big fat no. but you weren’t welcomed either. You were scared of lonely arms. I was too. But the other half wasn’t just you.
Tonight you are just a piece of paper I decided to throw away; the words scribbled in it are worthless. For they aren’t art, they are the story on how I cry at the lonely night, how I get happy on the scary flight, just when life is about to end. How paranoid I am, the hunger of love that I have, yet you aren’t that love. I am not feeling less but I just don’t have some for you. You asked for shoulder to cry and rest upon, mine just aren’t the ones. Don’t expect anything in return because your love and compassion aren’t taken. I will, one day, be old enough to realize how I let you go this day, like a stroke I never wanted, blindness I suffer. That day I might miss you because I see myself when I see you. I might be too afraid to see the truth, but tonight it is just not you. Sorry.
You ask me if you could leave, I don’t want you to leave, because you are a piece of art like all others, you are art that we strive for, live for. Art that is life. Life that you are but just not for me. Tonight the papers aren’t going to be filled with you; inks aren’t going to be spent on you. Tonight, I am writing a poem and I am letting you go.
(With love, maybe)