I have written 200 poems
And not a single one of them
Is solely about myself.
I was too involved
With the music of others
And yet at the end of the serenade,
I lie alone.
And my late night thoughts
Stopped plunging into tender kisses
For the first time in my life
I am losing my obsession with beautiful people-
I can feel the shift in my heart.
And cordiform bruises remain
But weeks or months or years from now
My scars will fade
And stop leaving such a bitter taste.
It’s a certain kind of syncopation
I’ve been so lost in staying on expected beats
That I forgot to look in between.
Maybe I’m not a flower
Maybe I won’t grow into something beautiful
But I refuse to be something ordinary.