I wanted to write a poem.

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I wanted to write a poem
About love, freedom, and hope.
I have always been reading that poem
In between heartbeats and beaten hearts.
I tried to think of every broken phrase that there was.
Sadly, I’ve never had the chance to write them down.

I wanted to write a poem
That ended with the lines,
“A placebo still would’ve been better than nothing at all, right?
At least I thought I had something that you gave wholeheartedly, right?”
I have yet to write that poem,
Much less divine how it ends.

I wanted to write a poem
That reflected me and you in all its darkness,
Enjambments like suckerpunches,
Figures of speech numbering our days.
I cannot write that poem.
At least, not yet. Not without you.

I wanted to write a poem
And I wanted it to be Me,
Me in the form of words strung together in a specific sequence
Such that it would all make sense.
I’m reading this again and I’m hoping that it won’t be this poem.
I edited this poem and I don’t think it would be so bad if it was.

I wanted to write a poem
That wasn’t this poem, or rather, was better than this one.
I’ve seen the first three stanzas through a different set of lenses
And I can sincerely say that I wouldn’t want this poem to be Me.
I’m trying to make it up to myself and to you by ending this poem.
This poem will probably be me.

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