I thought the the burning
sensation beneath my lungs
were feelings of content
and a little bit of elation,
but what happened
to my gracious heart—
it leaps, for you,
but not in that way.

It springs down into a pit
of—no, not despair—of
despondence.
I no longer crave
for your touch
or your hug
or your lovely kisses;
I no longer crave
for your empty hands
that held my broken pieces.
I no longer crave
for your thoughts
nor your attention—
I no longer crave
for your everything
yet still, here I am:
thinking great heights
of  y o u
and how I still
longed for you to
look at me in the eye
and say, "I miss you."

Do I miss you, truly?
Or is this just pain
seeping through my eyes
in forms of tears
that cascade monstrously
down my soft features?