A Sonnet to the Gone

I always was for the words not spoken,

and I always was for the rawest thought;

yet it was the silliest kind of fluff,

believing somehow in some kind of fate.

 

I don’t believe in everlasting love,

because at some point, I somehow forgot;

because love was such a pitiful thing,

such is the only reasonable fact.

 

Yet I still remember the last time I

saw you, and it felt just like everything;

when I saw the only way out, and it

was repression, and so I won’t question it.

 

And so it turns out that it’s all right now,

as far as it seems, my heart will allow.