I might’ve loved you, perhaps,
when the fireweed was blooming in fall
and the trees became a swirling mess
I might’ve loved you then,
when the snow fell in winters gone by,
or in hot, dusty summers.
I might’ve loved you, before
our words splattered the walls
like blood in the crime scene of
our romance, and
amidst the apologies that littered the floor
lay two broken hearts,
still wanting to believe in the fairytale,
not the awful reality.
I might’ve loved you better,
had I known I could be better,