As expected of the average teen,
It was a commonplace thing
for me to be awake
at 2 AM.

Now things are different.

9 o'clock onward used to be my
favorite time of the day.
The moon would dance across the sky
and everything was somehow
beautiful.
Especially you.

But now, I don't see the moon. . .
I only see your dimly lit face
through my computer,
and hear your deep voice.
Only see your hands
forming into hearts,
and a love in your eyes
that is no longer meant for me.

**That's when it's bedtime.

The dark, menacing clouds
roll in this morning --
Smothering all that lives
and breathes
the early March sunshine,
including my spirits.
But my spirits have always
been easy to crush. . .
and in turn , lift back up again.
But this particular morning,
the clouds are murderous,
the fog is suffocating,
the sun is nowhere to be seen,
and I know
. . .
I know my spirits will never lift again.

It's been 4 weeks exactly.
That's 28 days.
but in these past 28 days,
you've crossed my mind
more than 28 times.
Far more.
I pretend to listen in AP Lang,
but, really, i just sit there
and wonder how you are,
if you're moving on,
or if you're already there. . .
i worry that you're not getting enough rest,
and that you're having bad dreams.
i wonder if you see beauty in the world
like you used to.
I wonder if you're keeping up with precalc,
and taking your melatonin so your pesky
insomnia
won't keep you up..
Remember how you never used to take it?
Because you could fall asleep without trouble
as long as you heard my voice
that night.
You fell in love with
a voice,
and then me.
It's really kind of silly.
But then again, so did i.
I've read your latest poems,
and they both made me cry.
My eyes have leaked many times
since I last heard your voice. . .
But don't worry,
I'm not angry.
I just wonder about you,
and hope you're well,
or at least getting there.

*But most of all, I wonder if you ever think of me.

The Beatles were wrong.
Sometimes, love isn't all you need.
With a blind eye, a deaf ear, and unending love,
Maybe we would succeed. . .
But words can't be taken back;
Things can't be left unsaid.
Distance is the silent killer. . .
And as I lie here in my bed
I think of you, and what we had.
I hope you have good dreams
But what is more? I realize that
*I don't regret a thing.

Head spinning.
Hands sweating.
Heart racing.
Silence.

After confidence is gained,
I take a defensive stand at the podium.

All eyes are on me.
Every single one.

I'm expected to make a speech,
After all, it's my sister's wedding.

That unnerving silence pervaded the room.

I open my mouth,
But no words come.
Only raw, and painful memories
Of an unforgiven past.

***** this.*

I throw the microphone onto the floor,
And retreat to my car,
Never to be seen again.

For me,
writing a poem is like
opening the floodgates to my soul.
My thoughts
pour onto the tattered pages;
I let go of emotional control.

For moments,
just a few precious moments,
My racing mind finds unmistakable peace.
I finish,
and return to my mundane routine
finally feeling like I can breathe.

What about you?

I stole a glance across the room,
And prayed you wouldn't see. . .
I hoped you'd think of everything
'Cept what we used to be.

It was a blessing, and a curse,
But neither saw it then.
Only now can I look back,
And see you weren't my friend.

They say love blinds a person,
But, our "friendship" left me torn.
You'd use me up, and dry me out. . .
Then leave me useless and worn.