I used to write you letters,
And throw them on the floor.
You never read my letters,
They stayed behind my door.
I would like to think,
You liked them.
But something in tells me,
You've ripped them all.
I don't think you would like them,
You weren't a fan of such displays.
Of poems and plays,
And headache.
A heart was just,
Something you could break.
©
M