A Chest Cold

A poem about the madness of loving and losing

If it loves

Kill it;

For it is no use to me.

Break it,

Before it breaks me,

into a sharpness of shards.

Let it rust and gather dust

under a sweaty mattress of lust.

Replace it;

with a hard consciousness,

locked away by padlocks and chains

to shun the pains

that resound from it’s poetic beat.



If it loves,

me

again…

Listen to it.

Tell it you love it

with the softest of syllables,

stroke the smoothness of it’s shine.

I was never to be hers,

But She,

She was always to be mine.