Sick and Tired

I’ve been getting sick and

tired of maybes lately.

Been sifting through

the sheets of fading affection,

wondering how they’ve lasted

for so long under the frustration

of unrequited romantic attachment.

A bell rings dimly, consistently,

in my head as I lie here in bed

thinking of all the maybes

that have sufficed all this time:

"you’re several months too late,

my friend - you should’ve known

she didn’t want you in the end.”

I concur.

Why did I let this drag on,

a sleeping drunkard draped

over my shoulder, weighing me down

until I’m on my knees, just meters

from her dilapidated apartment home?

I can’t keep investing time on this

so-called love if it skirts around

honest, straight answers and

gets drunk on my kindness.

I’m leaving love at her apartment door,

come whatever will become of her.

Maybe this time she’ll think twice

before taking advantage

of the circumstances.

I need some air.

These maybes are fooling me

into thinking something’s still there.

I know it’s not.

I doubt it’ll ever be.

So maybe this time, 

I learn my lesson

and take a step off the sidewalk,

into the street, and onto

the final bus ride towards the airport.

God knows moving on has taken every effort

out of me; but this is necessary.

You already know I’m sick of these maybes.