the end of every poem.

by atti?

i'd be shallow if you could actually cry
.. if something more than sand
could tip
(h)our glass
to the point it truly was half empty,
no matter if you stand on your tippy-toes
and pier down as if you really thought it was an acurate depiction
to glance off the top of my shoulders,
and claim we've filled this ugly mug
with anything more than a few droplets of something
that resembles sober.

as if i really knew how to swim anyways
-you just wanted someone to test the waters
before you pretended to drown.

your greatest weakness is a poet
-mine is the literate;

if i could actually read my own words
i'd realize what it means to you
when i fall apart in your glass palms-
and count down to the end
while thinking that your math is strong:
everyone knows poets
use the other side of a half hearted mind-
but my reflection wears disguise
like you're trying to play along,

stupid
me.

my relationship status is:
narcissism;

i'm good at reading palms,
but when you hold my hands
and i cup your face
-those smile lines contort the page.

maybe i'll love you along,
or maybe this is just another heroes tales
i've used as a napkin
to wipe away those tears again-
either way

i'll let it happen.

don't think of me as an asshole..
i'm the poet you've always quoted-
i'll help you fill your journal pages
so i can steel
a moment.

you can be my ambiguous
warning letter-
that just can't keep its hands off of heartbeats,
because i'm a poet before a reader,
and those palpitations make better endings
then new beginnings.

i'm sorry, truly
-this is the (heart)est part,
but will you help me write
the ending?


i've got another poem
to start.