You dub yourself,
“The Hopeless romantic.”
You draw flowers and frogs
on unlined pieces of paper.

Somewhere I have,
a framed rose
from a time where love
was what we thought it was.
It’s a bittersweet memory.
Letters of astral planes
and a hotel room key.
A forgotten collection in a shoebox.

You consider yourself
a hopeless romantic.
Perhaps a Casanova,
a being with more than enough
“love” to give.
You say you forget
and another victim is born.

You tell people
You’re a hopeless romantic,
when in reality,
you’re simply hopeless.