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.
