so how do you know if you are heartbroken?

do you have the sinking feeling in your stomach,
or is it in the chest that feels like an anchor that scrapes?
do you badly want to touch his face,
and then cry because you cant?
do you wish to see him in your dreams,
and feels a little bit happy the moment you do?
do you know where to begin,
cos you are missing him?
do you cry on the bathroom floor,
in the midnight or before you sleep?
do you cry for all the maybe's,
maybe there's someone else?
do you pity your heart,
for how much hurt it can carry?
do you crave for his touch,
and the way it made you feel?
do you want to hear his laugh,
and the way his eyes smile?
do you still believe in love's magic,
the way you believed in him?
do you ache for the words he said,
the words you held so dear?
do you feel blank and blah,
and your world starts, falling?
do you avoid everything else,
that will take you back on him?
do you look back on the memories,
as they starts flashing?
do you tell yourself that it's going to be okay,
but sadly, you do not know when?
do you crave and crave and crave more,
until you fall into your sleep?
do you wish to God to bring him back,
even tho not knowing if it is right?
do you feel like you need to survive,
and wake up to feel it over again?
do you feel like you are dying,
but other times you are dead?
do you feel like these words weren't enough
to describe what you feel or
do you feel like you looked like intact,
but still never the same?

Whenever I see your face I itch to sin.
I would inhale the saltiness of your skin, and the spice your chest radiates.
I would memorize how your ribs ripple when you groan.
I would pray silently that behind each closed door your fingers will crawl all over me.
I would do it all and much more just so I know what it's like to sin after seeing your face.
I would love to know what you desire when you see my face.
Do you want my submission slipping from my lips?
Do you hunger for the heave of my chest, or do you pine for the arch of my foot?
Do these thoughts ever beckon you like they do to me?
If they do, why don't we take the trip together?
Why don't we uncover the pins and needles behind our masks, and revel in the fragility of our bodies?
Why don't we stitch together words that tumble between bated breaths, and lay them down underneath these stained sheets?
Why don't you trace your fingers along my backbone, while I hope you can coax it to act out against you?
If only I could hear what you think when our eyes meet, if only I can sketch out the itch to sin that suddenly invades me.

Sometimes i asked myself why it didn't matched.
Why all of a sudden you said we didn't matched.

How pathetic i am to feel bluer than blue,
And asked God of ways for you to miss me too.

I think it all comes back in flashes you know,
All the memories, they comes back, except you.

When poets die
It's sad and true,
It matters not
What their bodies do,
The spirit flies
To Poet's Corner,
In Westminster Abbey.
You'll not see
Busts or inscriptions
For all the poets
Whose spirits linger
Alongside Chaucer, Browning, Spencer,
And a myriad of authors.
Dead Poet you have earned your share;
Dead Poet I will know you're there,
Composing in the Laureate's lair.