Why do I keep torturing myself
with little bits of reading
little bits of writing
about the girls who have forgotten
long ago what they mend to me.

Is it because I refuse to forget
not want to reclaim my heart
or just because I’m a masochist
with issues unsolved
in an empty space…

Or maybe I always was
the one who gave the most
The most idiotic of both
too romantic, but not convincing enough

Blue eyes keep on killing me…


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