I didn’t think about you tonight,
at least until now.
Does thinking about how I’m not thinking about you count as not thinking about you?
I didn’t write about you either.
I have recently but not yesterday,
nor the day before that.
That’s weird, right?
You weren’t in my dreams.
Although I often didn’t dream about you.
Why dream when the real thing was better?
Your lips didn’t race my heart,
or my hands up your thigh in a heated kiss on a cold, cold night.
I’m starting to think that maybe your spell has lifted.
That the magic is gone,
or merely has waned to the point of non-existence.
Our story didn’t didn’t last.
I failed at writing this poem.
You never liked poetry anyway.