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