it's the third month without you and
we haven't spoken since that last night we spent together.
I am beginning to numb myself with alcohol;
trying to forget the pain you have caused me.
you took a piece of me that will never
be fully mended without your love.
I don't want you back, I just want to have what you took from me.
My hands are cold and my heart is still broken.
I can't think full thoughts about you
without
going
crazy.
You appear in my dreams more often than not.
I dream of the day when you caress my hair
and hold my hand. When you speak to
me with your voice like music
and your thoughts like poems.  
I dream of a future that
parallels the past;
that recollects your love and showers it on me.

february fourteenth was coming and I
imagined ways you would try to get me back.
I counted a dozen rose petals and ended
on "he loves me"
oh, how beautiful would it be if a rose could
tell me that you love me?
I laid in bed counting the glow-in-the-dark stars
that we put on my ceiling that one snowy night.
you had told me "whenever the world casts a shadow
or makes your life like a blizzard, and you are for some
reason unable to see the stars that make you smile,
look at your ceiling and know that my love and their
light will shine down on you."
oh, baby, I'm counting them and looking for your love
but the only thing I can feel is your absence.

I can still taste the ***** on my mouth,
your hands around my waist, tracing my ribs.
I can still hear those sweet, sweet lies you told
me at three in morning.
"I love you"
"I love you"
"I love you"
I can still remember the way you pretended
that my skin was flawless, that my eyes were
the prettiest ones you'd ever seen.
I can remember the way you fell asleep next to me,
every breath heating the side of my neck.
I can remember you hugging me goodbye,
promising to call later.
Out of all the things I can remember,
why must you be the one to forget?
I gave you my love, I gave you my heart.
You had my feelings gripped inside of your
beautiful hands.
Instead of creating a magnificent story,
you ended the book after reading the back cover.
You threw me aside, not even bothering to tell me why.  
I can still feel the brokenness inside of me.
I can feel.
I can feel.
I can feel.