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?