Allen Ginsberg be damned; I'm writing a poem.

I would like you to know that I’m over you.
You didn’t know me.
We never met.
We were closely connected by time and space.
I cut the golden thread.
The loom stopped working.
Gold washes me out.
I’m out of excuses.

I’m a little sorry.
Not enough to apologize.
I didn’t know you.
No need to apologize to someone you didn’t know, right?
Or maybe I’m just a rude person.
Or maybe apologizing is just a way to absolve guilt.
I’m out of excuses.

I saw you yesterday.
I didn’t wave hello.
You didn’t know me.
It’s weird to wave at someone you don’t know, right?
Or maybe my arm was tired.
Or maybe I was holding something.
I’m out of excuses.

You called my name out.
I didn’t answer you.
I didn’t know you.
No need to answer someone you don’t know, right?
Mom told me never to talk to strangers.
Or maybe I lost my voice.
Or maybe I forgot how to speak English.
I’m out of excuses.

I asked you to finish this poem for me.
You didn’t.
You didn’t know me.
It’s awkward to finish a poem for someone you don’t know, right?
Or maybe you thought I should do it myself.
Or maybe I’m just lazy.
I’m out of excuses.