We call ourselves lovers,
but all we do is cause pain within each other's hearts.
We show the hurt in our words and our eyes to one another; we call this trust.
Only, when we do this, we just show how imperfect our lover is, because nothing they do will ever take away the pain.
They could trace their lips upon my sweet blushed skin and whisper the sweetest nothings to make my heart stop and race,
but they will never take away the crippling depression I face every night, when the mind is most active and alone.
I could write him, poem by poem,
and he'd read every syllable over and over before bed,
but that will not take away his living memories.
No matter how much a person could care,
It'll only take off the edge for awhile now and then,
until we both crumble in each other's arms; until we become the fragments of our beautiful, lonely distressed romance.
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Comments about this poem (Imperfections by Jozee Huber )
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