Like the old days

you asked if i still think of you
i do
like the baseless aftertaste
of bad sex

i don’t dream about you

i don’t have to
the scars you left are still under my tongue
like bad poetry, you couldn’t even finish

did the truth scare you too?
were your metaphors you carved
really how you felt?

they were baseless and reeked
of someone who tried to bend words
that were never his to begin with

your metaphors shaped you
and now i laugh about it
at you

your repetition is repulsive
as it is surface level
you’re a low tide that never gets high

if your words “fell off”
you’d have me fooled
i wouldn’t stop at just words

you fell for the rhythm
and all too familiar writes
like a follower, no creativity
no depth

i didn’t pray for old days
i prayed for the hypocrisy
to end
i prayed for new ones

don’t ask me now if i feel like
the old days
i don’t