Three years wasted.
—It’s midnight.
Years that were spent following another’s
heart, another’s dreams.
—And I’m still writing on my diary.
Forfeiting the hopes and wishes I’ve always
held dear.
—Writing down the dreary memories.
That I may always be with the one,
—Making myself remember.
Who made my heart skip and forget.
—For the last time…the last time.
For after this, I’ll get back to the poems.
The sonnets and verses and lines,
A mirage of cold words that were put
together
To make me warm.
They do not have the heart that you do
Nor the feelings or the touch or embrace.
But they are better than you
So I’ll get back to the poems
Than still love you.