with doodles of my name
with your last name
always
attached lovingly at the end
instead of notes
on the elements of poetry
I was supposed to write down.
I didn't think
I needed to learn
about poetry
anymore,
because you were
my poetry.
Penciled hearts scattered its pages.
It was a notebook of hope.
I did a FLAMES of our names,
and with fourteen letters
crushed out,
we added up to L.
It was a sign.
I knew it was.
And you were
my poetry.
Your name was poetry.
Your hello was poetry.
Your smile was poetry.
You were my
definition for love.
You loved me, too.
That, I knew.
It was in the way
you said my name,
in the way
you looked at me.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I was poetry to you, too.
But there was too much pride
on both our sides,
and things ended
before they could even begin.
So to quote the lovely Spektor:
"You are
my sweetest downfall.
I loved you first."
And you will always be
the one
I loved first,
even though the penciled hearts
on my tattered notebook
have long since
faded away.
-Nocturnal Scribe
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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012
