Benjamin Daoust, Contributor

This story starts as a night of bodily love, 
Becomes a wee web of first times and thrill, 
Then homes on kisses, passion, and “we will,” 
But ends as a hoodie left cowardly at a door. 
“No more poem ‘bout me,” you asked,
When you were my muse, my everything,
Yet my nothing to the “what’s wrong?” 
My art, my heart, my fuss, my must 
My lust, my… cost.
Now I drive, think, and scroll aimlessly, 
Looking for your car in the neighborhood, 
Looking for a daydream that arouses memories,
Looking for our matching initials in stupid reels. 
And I think, and ponder, and reflect, contemplate:
Why would I be infatuated with such futility ? 
This story has abused my love and forbearance,
Become a great web of “sorry” and hesitancy, 
Then stifled my emotions, shaping impassivity, 
Before ending with the belief no one’s loved me.