Just a Man

I was cold, you made a fire.
The logs crackled like applause
while you played your guitar
and sang to me songs of love
of broken roads and crossed stars;
with every note I loved you more.

You brought me flowers-
no, in my mind you did,
and that was all that really mattered.
I kept them pressed neatly
between Byron, Keats, and Shelly
and the lines that made up you.

You said that you had always loved me
and that I was the only one,
but I didn't really listen,
I only heard what I wanted
instead of what was important,
your use of past tense regarding me.

I was wrong, I was wrong,
I made you grander than what you are.
I built you up in my mind.
I hid your flaws in the shadows
and let the rest of you shine far too brightly.
I saw exactly what I wanted to see.

I was wrong to make more of you
than what was really there,
but my heart believed in the mirage.

That song you sang to me
has turned to ashes in my ears.
It's my fault for trusting you.
The petals wilted upon reflection,
and in this harsh new light
all the words I used to love
are now an empty page.

You are not a song,
you are not a sonnet,
you are just a man

and I was wrong
but I believed in you.