an open letter to hopeless romantics

this is an open letter to hopeless romantics

(and not just the love involving sex)

i have a way of romanticizing even the worst of things

i see rings and roses and handwritten letters

in the empty of worlds

and i don’t even like roses

but the way the death of things poses

beams with neglect

with infidelity and abuse

what if i’m just used to shit

is it supposed to hit at some point

that i can’t save everything i see

is the world supposed to frown at me

some days and other days not

because i did not come this far to come this far

my best friend is a scarred blind optimist

and perhaps we’re just idealists in disguise

wondering if being wise is checking things thrice

or not trusting at all

most days i just wonder if this is what it’s meant to fall in love