I write poetry because I love it. I don't share it often, but here lately I have found myself sharing more and more. Along with poetry, I love the idea of love; however, I'm not the type of person to wear rose-colored glasses. Love can hurt, or so I'm told. So, I guess that is where this came from; that simple idea.

I remember when loving you was easy.

A part of my daily routine,

just as brushing my teeth, or taking my pills,

or painting my lips a rose-colored pink.

A home-cooked meal on a Sunday afternoon.

A glass of red wine on a Monday evening.

A cheesy rom-com with a cliché ending.

You felt like a road trip, hand on thigh, beautiful view.

You felt like a poem,

a home.

But lately loving you has become a task.

An exam that I have studied for

but can never score above average.

An essay that I have written

but with grammatical errors and repeated words.

A book that I have read

but the last page is always missing.

An unanswered phone call.

A "save as draft."

A home that was once mine,

but I have received the eviction notice.