always

i used to want to write poetry
about how you and i
make incredible magic together.
that when we began,
it was just two hands,
barely touching,
two heads,
hovering around each other.
a couple of beers later,
and an inordinate number of walks,
it was starting to feel like,
maybe this was something real.

and then we ended up with,
me wanting to spill everything,
and you holding back.
you with your mind games,
and me with my words.
i have my words,
to recount the history
of you and me.
how i fell first,
uncontrollably,
uncomfortably.
and how you, eventually, fell for
the manner of my loving.

isn't it ironic that
this very manner is why
here i am four years later,
broken, and trying to make sense
out of the jagged pieces
of my heart?
how is it that
someone who knows you
inside out
decide he doesn't want you,
or who you are,
and decide this four years --
four fucking years later?

i miss
everything.
all the crazy nights,
the cozy days,
the times spent apart,
only to crave,
to long for each other.
to me, the magic
didn't end or leave.
maybe this is that thing
where i'll always be someone
you can choose to come home to,
but you won't ever want to be
home for me.