It was maybe a year ago when I promised you I’d write poetry for you and till this day, you have not given me a single moment that would usher rhythmic sweetness. You gave me only moments of supreme disappointment.

A thousand times, I’ve told myself that you were not worth the knife in my back. So I pretended I was happy for the people you now call strawberry.

I wonder how many were before me and how many will come after. I should fly away and forget your gold dust.


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