For M.

I meant it
that I love you
on your steps
that last July
you said it first,
I love you,
and I echoed.
You smiled at my reply.
At the cost of sounding cheesy
I will write another line
and tell you that
I love you still,
though you don't care
for me,
Your heart, you say,
belongs to someone else
who's far away,
She isn't what you want,
I swear,
She isn't what you need,
I'm sure,
I could make you happier,
You and I,
you've seen it,
and I have seen it
in your eye,
but you can't see
through veils of fear,
and I refuse
to beg
for something that should be mine.

And now I'm writing poems
on the back of a coloring page
at a job I never wanted
in a town that's not my own
in a place where I'm forgotten
and the wood stove keeps me warm
as I hide myself at home,
and the wood stove keeps me warm
as I hide and die alone.

-kb