He told me, “I bet you write pretty poetry”.
And in that moment
The moon can attest
To the love that surged out of my soul.
And oh, the words my pen would bear
That night.
Yet, time has a wicked sense of humor.
The past is not the present’s crush.
My mind finds herself back there with you
On that cold September night.
And my throat tickles with laughter
That my heart ever craved yours.
Yes, I want to say now.
As the days have turned into months.
I write poetry that is pretty
And some that call your name.
But, my prettiest poetry of all
Was when I moved on
From those chocolate eyes
And half-hearted smile.
My prettiest poems
Are about
Me.