She’s beauty sprinkled with mystery of the ocean, an object of attention, I care not for her, but leaving is depression. She’s love, she’s hate, darkness and light – she creates divided opinions.
The friction between us gains as the calendar crawls, my perceived progress all but stalls, ‘she’s not my type.’—as I run through her flaws. But I remain resilient – motivated - attacking with a flurry of calls. My flirtatious gestures effortlessly transformed to gas - an envy to a chemist of my class.
Maybe I’m seen as a digital being - trapped in her phone, but I stay optimistic, that I’d be seen as human rather than a drone. My heart ices up cause she’s cold, frozen like sundae on a cone.
This is not a love-gone-bad letter but rather a note to relieve my scorn so it don’t fester . I don’t hate her but I've made a move to be less a dreamer.