The Truth Has Three Sides

[One]

I drink my coffee black every morning.
I like how looking at you makes me feel.
Twice, I ask to kiss you.
The second time, there was a lump in my throat.
I like to believe it was a metaphor,
for every feeling I have ever swallowed.
A plain tumor is all it was.

I have woken up, looked in the mirror and thought:
"Okay, I look good today."
If I am late, it's because I don’t know how to plan time.
Cut to me blushing, laughing,
Of course we were no full moon.

In my poems, you are the dream of you.
The falling stars are just glitter.
Just thousand of tiny LED lights poured down from the sky.
That July was a fire that minded it's own business.
The following June was just 30 days, the moon was a strawberry.
It wasn't the drugs.

The shadows on the ceiling weren’t dancing again.
I was walking backwards when I met you.
You are not the first boy who I wrote into existence - or loved.
That thought unties my shoelaces.
Once we were a crescent moon, weightless as a smile.

I love you.
Still, I'm not sorry I don't want to write about you anymore.
So, let's see how long we can go without talking.
This time, if we really try, maybe I will forget your birthday.
I miss you but I don't wish you were here.

[Two]

You don't like coffee.
You like what it does to your body.
You like the way coffee makes your body feel,
so you take your cream and sugar with coffee.

I'm not sure why you kissed me back the first time.
I suspect you liked what it did to your body.
You liked the way my kiss made your body feel.
Once, I let you wrap your palms around my neck,
to feel the tumor ride my throat like an elevator.

You wear sweat-shorts.
And I still wanna fuck you.
Once - you gave me a bouquet of pink roses
or was it a fury of your puckered lips?
When your elbow found mine in that crowd,
after a year of our mouths not speaking,
I was not happy to see you.
I was relieved.

Once, you said a person is a either a peacekeeper or a pot-stirrer.
We both knew which I am.
I bet you think you are a peacekeeper.
I bet you think magicians don't exist.

You are the first dizzy wind-spell to trip my tornado.
Once, you smiled in my direction and balloon-on-the-loose,
there I went so high I forgot which came first-
you or the dream of you.

You told me once after work,
you took the bus all the way west to watch the sunset,
only to miss it.
You said you were so glad you made it to me on time.
If you came back I would not ask why.
You may say none of this ever happened.

[Three]

I drink my coffee black but you don’t like coffee.
You like what it does to your body.
You like the way coffee makes your body feel,
so you take your cream and sugar with coffee every morning.

This is not about you.
I just like how looking at you makes me feel.
Twice, I ask to kiss you.
The second time, how you said:
"I just don’t think I can give you what you want." -
really not sure then why you kissed me back the first time.
I suspect you liked what it did to your body.
You liked the way my kiss made your body feel.

Once, there was a lump in my throat.
I like to believe it was a metaphor,
for every feeling I have ever swallowed.
A plain tumor is really all it was.
See, how this is my story.

I have woken up, looked in the mirror and thought:
"Damn, I look good today!"
And you wear sweat-shorts. In public.
And I still wanna fuck you.

Once you gave me a bouquet of pink roses,
or was it a fury of your puckered lips?
If I am late, it is because I was too anxious to leave.
I don't know how to plan time.
So when your elbow found mine in that crowd,
after a year of our mouths not speaking -
I was not happy to see you.
I was mad that I was relieved.
Cut to me blushing, laughing.
Of course, weren’t you dancing beside me?
But we were no full moon.

Once you said a person was either a peacekeeper or a pot-stirrer,
and we both knew which I am.
And I bet you still think you are a peacekeeper.
In my poems- you are the dream of you.
"Maybe" is this alternate universe,
where the falling start were just glitter.
Just thousands of tiny LED lights poured down from the sky.
That July was a fire, but it minded it's own business.
And the following June was just 30 days.
The moon was a strawberry,
It might have been the drugs.

But the shadows on the ceiling were not dancing again.
I was walking backwards when I met you.
I made all of this magic and I bet you think magicians don't exist.
Well, you are not the first boy who I write into existence - or loved.
You are just the first dizzy wind-spell to trip my tornado.
That time you smiled in my direction and balloon-on-the-loose,
there I went so high.
I forgot which came first - you or the dream of you.
And it's that thought that unties my shoelaces.

Cause once we were a crescent moon, weightless as a smile.
And I love you. Still.
I’m not sorry. I just can't write about you anymore.
So let's see how long we can go without talking.
This time, I will really try to forget your birthday. Maybe.
If you came back, I would not ask why I miss you.
But I don't wish you were here.
You may say none of this ever happened,
but all of the details sure fit.
So, Abracadabra.