i don't want anything of hers

we shared a bottle of wine
on an overpass every evening
of a summer's month. on
my bed, you whispered things
i thought were true. i'm uncertain
to why i believed when
you told me things like, 'darling,
i love you,' and, 'one day when
you ask me, i will say yes.' then
that was enough to have me longing
to be better myself, to have in
me the ability to give her heaven,
a future, security, and everything
else that a truly beautiful woman
deserves. but then as the days and
evenings faded away into what destiny
had designed it to be; simple memory's
and other tidbits of routine's
to come. Photographs will line
my albums, at first I had been
foolish to think it was so in
years to come we'd curl up on
a couch together, examining
in those crumbling pieces off ancient
paper, how beautifully young
we were. Little was I to have even
guessed that they were instead
to litter those blank pages and
invoke in me a pain so deep nothing
else could ever cut so far in.
Even the sound of her name sends
shivers down my spine; and I'm nothing
but happy to hear of her doing
well; yet I wish it was me she longed
to be with. Her achievements have been
laid out on magazine spreads, her keen
eye for photography is something
that always had me calling her late in
the evening; but she doesn't know, couldn't
have a clue to just how much she means
to the world. If it wasn't for her then
the production style would have to remain
the same as before; fore she revolutionize
a genre in which staleness was rampant.
If only she could have taken the same tend-
er approach when dealing with me. That's obscene
I guess, to assume she would have gave in
to me and all my piling demands. For to arouse in
me a haplessness so mediocrity, then she'd of been
spending upwards of months just to force an inch
of a smile on my face. So jaded, nothing
finds humor in me; but now that I myself have found
time favorable, I wish she could see me and
know I've changed, i find beauty in the littlest things.