Why Do I Bother

There’s something to be said in the way
that we all want to feel
like we warrant a response.

That maybe that’s why we don’t ask for the honest.
That maybe we focus on lust than harness
a feeling where it’s more likely to fall than
fly.
I
Think pain comes from getting my hopes too high—
not from the fingers who never even bother to reach.

And you swim in an ideal so long,
that even when goes go as you expected,
something inside of you, dries up, let’s the wind carry it through the waves until it’s sun beaten and beached.

I guess,
there’s nothing to be said of us,
but rather of me;
hurting over something as little as a sad response
and a house that passed through the day,
empty.

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