A very short poem that I wrote on the bus about a week and a half ago. I can’t think very well on the bus, which is why this poem is quite short.


I’m reading the same line again,

Trying to process the meaning of words I don’t understand

Isn’t this like me and you?

Constantly, I try to understand what you want,

(Is it me? Is it a better future? Is it a future without me?)

Even though I have no idea who you are.

I’m picking apart the letters, putting together the syllables

Piecing together your heart isn’t any easier.

I’m short a screwdriver, I’ve lost a bolt.

It needs extra parts,

But I’m not sure if I’m ready to give mine away.

Can I trust you to keep mine beating?


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