Poetry is Sensitve

Unbeknownst to you

I swore off poetry one night when I thought you would never hold me again.

Under the freezing clarity of Canadian January and an ironically lovely sky,

I saw that if this was not the intricate work of well meaning gods that I thought it was,

than surely every fragment of beauty was nothing more than a manifestation of mathematics that only happens to be pleasing

and love is nothing more than synapses and endorphins on a joyride with modern myths and Hallmark running the GPS

and happiness is measured in the space between sadnesses

so poetry could be nothing more than the sound of an echo lost in a sea of roaring echoes

all longing to not be an echo.

And though later you held me again

and have since

and while I have smiled and daydreamed in the days that have passed

poetry is sensitive

and has proven less forgiving.