writing about the nighttime in spring
seems like a poetic sin or maybe
just irony or wit or something like that.
all i know is that my poetry is not deep enough.
even andrea’s. i scrape the ice,
can’t fall though.

and i can swap tales with the best of them
but i guess silly nonexistent romances aren’t important.
i guess being happy is dumb.
that my meaning is too apparent and i’m not
shallow enough to be deep.

and blame me, go ahead, blame me
for trying to posses a little apathy
for trying not to care even though i go home
and i write status messages about how
days where you just want to stop existing for a while
and everybody calls me emo and nobody
consoles me like other people console other people.
and my hands linger on the remove as friend button.
except they don’t because i’m too scared to go that far.

and this is what spring is for me: depressing.
blossoming in winter, what a poetic irony.
but december is my favorite because i get to tack
another years onto years of wishing for a first kiss.
and that’s all it means to me.
sorry,
i am apparently as deep as the puddles of melting snow,
more sad than fun to splash in.

(avoid me.)