I don’t really consider myself a poet, but I do at time ramble on in a way that could be perceived as so.

You had a key to my home.
But you didn’t want me in yours,
When it wasn’t “fit for visitors”
And if that isn’t some metaphor
For how differently we felt for each other
I don’t know what is.

I didn’t know you could relapse on thoughts
I haven’t seen you
Or touched you
Or spoken to you
Yet the sting is fresh. It hurts like no time has passed
You appear in my dreams to break my heart again
My dreams are where I should hold power but I don’t
Reality is where I need to hold power
And I’m trying