At the time, pure agony

I didn’t really feel like articulating it. 
I didn’t want to tell you
	that
	you made my heart skip like a child skips along the sidewalk (in storybooks)
	or like a stone skips along a smooth bed of water (when thrown hard enough). 

I didn’t really feel like articulating how I could’ve drowned inside your smile. 
I didn’t feel like explaining it, I still don’t.

	Come to think of it, 
	I was that stone, 	skipping. 

	And you, oblivious, tossed me out onto the lake—

	one of those beautiful lakes that you used to photograph,
	filtered through your crystal glass ball 	
	
	because there is no way to tell if the way that I saw you was reality 
	or just fucking idealism. 

	Oh how I despised popular culture for making me dream of something 
	I didn’t even want.

And I really didn’t feel like articulating how      I tried and tried to suppress the way that you made me feel 

			uncomfortable. 

	I wonder if it was all because you said you didn’t like poems. 
	I wonder what you would say if you knew I’d written one about you 

	and edited it.