Untitled #81

I broke up with poetry. I told him that he reminded me of you. The painful resemblance made it hard to bare, hard to stare at him in the eyes, hard to fake love. He has your voice, deep and powerful yet melodic. 

His stanzas are staccato and sharp, never fully expressing themselves. Sometimes he's simple, other times, too complex. I didn't want to relive the same guessing game, I didn't want to analyze his every line like I tried to do with you. I thought he was different, a sort of change that would take my mind away from you and into another dimension where maybe some sort of love could bloom. 

I always knew that it's the same 26 letters in the box. We're all familiar with the pieces, but when it comes down to the whole, I tend to get lost. You see, I tried it all with poetry; the rhymes and the rhythm, the long and the short, the free verse and the haiku, but it still brought me back to the same feeling of you. They keys on my typewriter are sick of typing about the same boy. All my pens know your name. I'm not fooling anyone, there is no need for a dedication at the beginning of this piece; the ink I write with is what is left of what I have of you.