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I could write infinite poetry

About how I feel for you.

I could write endless words

Of how I think about you.

I could- but I won't.

No, not anymore.



What could a fine poetry do?

When it would not reach you.

What could these words mean?

When it's quintessence cannot be seen?

I do believe in dreams coming true.

I do- But the question is: Do you?



You are so real in my mind-

Every bit of me feels your existence.

But I am just a wall tile,

A torn piece of paper in your collage.

A white pebble staring on a star,

How could you be so far?



I could write infinite poetry,

But no longer would it be about you.

I could even paint, write a song,

But it has nothing to do with you.

Three things that are real here:

Me, you, and this that I feel for you.



"You can love me."

"You can love me..."

"You can love me."

Rhetoric lines, speaking in hope.

Or false hope should I say?

Reality, "You won't." - come that day.



So I've made up my mind.

This is not about you. No.

It shouldn't be a big deal anyway.

It's just me who is thinking- right?

All the while, from the start,

All of these time- It's me.



It is just me.