You’re so maybe, just maybe
- a mere possibility or probability without ever touching yes or no.
I’m labeled the Beauty
- as long as it’s convenient for you.
But I’ve run out of time to waste on maybes.
You can’t build a house on loose sand
- nothing will stand on a ground so soulless, so lacking in security.
There’s only so little time you can spend on dancing along boardwalks and getting drunk with carnival lights
reflecting in your eyes when there’s not a moon to hang above you.
There are only so many days you can spend looking at little branches on bare winter trees
before you start to feel homesick and disposable
- as naked as the twigs and as easily broken.
Life happens without you.
Time is poignant and stuck up 
-it couldn’t care less for your ideas.
One day you’re grinnin’ sharp like Cheshire’s wit
the next this little bonding thing turns into fights about tomorrow.
You’re so maybe, only maybe
but I remember me
so I won’t be home tonight when you return.
You might tell your friends I just left you
- but only the dead truly leave without warning.
You’ll say that we had so much.
You’ll paint yourself as Victim who got his heart ripped out with talons
and see in the sky reasons to say “I am lost for words as I sit at the feet of this negligent God of mine”.
Let me tell you the truth because good news is always desperate for a more sickly, sad companion.
You’re so maybe but I’m so sure
that your dramatics won’t get you far
- just enough miles west of here to find another girl to thank you so much
for lessons on how to be someone else other than an open book
that you chose not to take off the shelf when the answers were underlined in red.
One last thing to share with you is an honest full confession:
The only reason I liked your closet door wide open was to look for all the skeletons that were long term tenants there.
Their bones were as dense as the teeth in your skull
that keep your truth shut in.


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