You used to read all of these
despite my unfathomable handwriting,
lack of rhyme schemes and meters,
and poor usage of figures of speech.
But you stopped adoring my poems,
and worse, you stopped loving me.

And so I tried writing better ones,
with hopes that I could bring back
your eyes to my written words,
and your heart to my broken one.

I thought you'd like it better
if I start my poems with flashbacks
of our teenage selves
sneaking out late at night,
driving around the city,
hopping to 24-hour fastfoods,
and coming home before midnight.

I thought better poems would be
about similes of your laughters
and my favorite songs;
about metaphors of your touch
and the spark of fire and lightning;
about consonances of your blue eyes
and the clear skies;
about allusions of your love for music
and that of Apollo's and Dionysus'.

I thought my poems would be better
if I only talk and write about you–
your cool mint scent,
your terrible jokes,
your cleverness in Math,
your calloused hands,
your musical note tattoo,
your annoying snores,
your dizzying kisses,
and tipsy lovemakings.

I thought you'd like it better
if I end my poems like
Gus and Hazel,
Henry and Claire,
Garrett and Theresa,
Dawson and Amanda.

Yet this is another shitty poem
I wrote on a drunk 3 AM;
disappointing Edgar Allan Poe again.

This is another crumpled piece of paper,
disgracing daddy Shakespeare,
and one more failed shot
to make you come back.
© Myka M. Obinque

Photo: @ibaiacevedo (IG)