This is not a love poem
This is not a sad poem
It’s a poem
About how every time
at this point of year
My heart’s somehow convinced
To fall in love
With a stranger
That my eyes have barely met with
Twice
Yet my heart lurches
At the pacing of their
Footsteps
The resonation
Of their giggle
Strumming
The wires
Connected to my brain
Hammering
A voice in me
It’s that season of the year
Where I wear flannels
Ironic of me to justify the season
Since I’m covered in flannels
All the time
It’s the time of year
Where my heart’s
Convinced of falling in
Love
And it’s certain
Of the fact that
This time things are going to be
A little different
Little does my foolish
Heart know
Fall does not justify falling in love
Leaves sure will rejuvenate
But my heart
I’m quite not sure.
He’s too nice
But the pumpkin spice latte
Doesn’t make it up for it
I have always been an americano person
How can someone be so nice?
But he’s hope
In form of everything I ever wanted
Every shred of pieces that I
Looked up in people
He’s all of them at once
Something I have never gotten used to
Perhaps never will
Because what is the identification of love
When you are no longer obsessed with the feeling to possess it?
What is complete love?
Is it the spring after the winter?
Or is it the fall?
Something
My body won’t ever understand
Because hope is just undiscovered disappointment.