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It's All in My Head

It’s a disease, These flashbacks of warm summer evenings, A poem of small details, Which only belongs to me. The way you spoke, Your fingers holding the cigarette to your lips, The look in your eyes, Which I believed to be meaningful. Your arms wrapped around me, Was a promise of love, Or so I thought, Before you bluntly cast me aside. My lips could not utter words, For I loved you too much, Yet you mistook this for dullness of character, Sharply telling me so. I still dream of what could have been, If only you would have realized, That I could have made you immortal, If I could have put my love into words.

Copyright © Martina Adovica | Year Posted 2017

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