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I’m not a synonym for your past girl,
I’m not going to be the fool
who pulls petals from a flower
hoping I’d end up on the positive
side effect. The Sandman skipped me,
so I won’t rub my eyes anymore
to see you any better.
And contrary to my belief,
you were the blurred end
to a light in water-
the credits to an unknown song.
Some would dare to call you
modern art; but I know that’s just
a euphemism for too abstract
to be understood.
But nonetheless, you made it to be
ubiquitous, a tongue twister
for someone who was never laconic,
never ravenous for a plate of zany
to keep her company-
or just drive the false vertigos
to a bit of parachuting down.
No more, paper boy.  No more of your force-field
paper tears you made me swallow.
You are not my flight with Icarus,
you are not the smell of earth after rain.
So lock me up in your loosely-clenched
fingers, and hope to a burning, stagnant star
the others you bit away
would want the same.