You wrote me a poem, once
You filled it with the romanceOf a childSitting in a bedroom in a basement somewhereWith a nightlight that projected the starsOnto the ceiling and the walls
I love that we pretendedNot to be scaredOf believing in the cliches that everyone believes inBut are afraidTo admit it to themselvesOr worse--out loud, or
Perhaps even more
We are afraid simply to voice them
Because our pasts have taught us that to speak them is to see them for what they are
Beautiful if selfish
Naive most of all
And they're washed away...
We were afraid, too, of course
But I made the choice
Without barely acknowledging it
To let you get away with it
And you did the same for me
You filled it with the romanceOf a childSitting in a bedroom in a basement somewhereWith a nightlight that projected the starsOnto the ceiling and the walls
I love that we pretendedNot to be scaredOf believing in the cliches that everyone believes inBut are afraidTo admit it to themselvesOr worse--out loud, or
Perhaps even more
We are afraid simply to voice them
Because our pasts have taught us that to speak them is to see them for what they are
Beautiful if selfish
Naive most of all
And they're washed away...
We were afraid, too, of course
But I made the choice
Without barely acknowledging it
To let you get away with it
And you did the same for me
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