Too old am I for unrequited
heart-felt promises not kept
as piercing as red-hot daggers
scaring over scars
letters strewn about
the back porch
a resemblance to
falling leaves of autumn
the air oppressive
with early summer heat
a smothering blanket
forcing me against my will
to keep on breathing
demanding breath after breath
Billie Holiday coming through
the speakers sings my song
eyes scanning unwilling
the letters page after page
they tell the story of
years of hope crushed
trust extinguished like a
burned down candle’s flame
dying a slow death
agonizing over what
might have been
the truth comes like
a cool refreshing wind
followed by acceptance
love is for the young
let them have it,
I need it no more
far too jaded am I.