in an effort to return one’s appreciation in the best way one knows how
if you must know, the truth that i write about
is the way you’ve managed to bruise every part that i’ve rebuilt
and yet i cannot appoint whether the fault is in fact yours or mine
was there a line we were meant to foremost draw
and if so, had it not been scratched onto the low lit pavement before my house
that 30 past however late i learnt of her presence
and the present that it quickly became
somehow, in exchange, i’m still out here showing you my favourite spot and least loved flowers
around the chessboard that is my neighbourhood because we’re such good friends
i refuse to get the short end of a stick i myself carved
for had i starved the juvenile in your genuine
better yet, the naive in my walk around the museum that was your mind
hands holding onto the entrance ticket as if your hands handed it to mine
then i wouldn’t have needed the walks to underline how this chessboard is not set for 2 queens
now between my being an emotional slut
and your downright oblivious nut
the worse part isn’t even necessarily the contexts you wrote aloud
but rather the reality that your words could foxtrot the way mine could only write about
and the reality that your loudest words will not be about me
you see, at the beginning of it all
i said i wouldn’t do this to myself again but here i am
playing chess with shiny new scrabble pieces
angry because even when i told myself
i stopped myself
i made myself promise it wouldn’t be
between what is and isn't written
there was a truth that it is you