Play boy from the hills

You.
The boy I wrote poems about,
you're an asshole.
I think all our muses
are really assholes
They wouldn't have been muses otherwise.

Anyway,
Boy from the hills,
you played me pretty well.
First with words and then with silence
And I didn't know what to do with the latter.

So when you waltzed back in
a fortnight later
I said goodbye, for you never understood
that I understood
that you played me.
And even as I write this
I feel so sad.
I am too old to imagine, but you were a puzzle
I wanted to complete.
So as much as I want to forgive you, I can't because
although i'm too old to imagine,
I'm not too old to stop what never began.

I can forget the boy who lik me
loves post rock and secret poems
who like me looks for love in blinding lights
and who, unlike me, leaves like a breath.

Give me time, boy.
I'll forget you well.