Writing poetry about breaking up is juvenile,
I know.
Maybe one day, I'll stop;
But that would require me fully moving on first.

I feel like the world's biggest stalker.
We haven't even spoken in 2 months,
Which is monumental
When you consider the fact that
You alone
Occupied my evenings
For a year and a half.

A strange phenomenon happens
Every time I search for you
Here on Hello Poetry.

What is it you ask?
It's a certain tingling sensation
That starts somewhere secret
And creeps up my spine
Until my whole self is covered in prickly goosebumps.

When the sheer sight of your name
no longer holds the ability to send chills down my spine,
My pathetic poems will stop.

My parents are divorced,
And yes, it's plain to see
That their divorce affected me.

But that's old news.
I know one thing, one thing for sure:
That I am their child, but nothing more.

(Not a product of their misfortune)
If I've not been sentenced their same fate...
Why am I afraid to date?

The most beautiful smile I've ever seen
was accompanied by crinkled eyes,
and a figure so lean
(and don't forget those laugh lines!)
It lit up every room, and brightened any day,
and the eyes above it sparkled with compassion,
Until Death's cold grip snatched her away.

As we sat at lunch that day
(it seems so long ago now),
I tried to explain the ins
and outs of my breakup,
but burst into tears instead.
You're a boy,
and I forgive you for that;
but just like the typical boy,
you didn't quite know
how to hold
a sobbing female.
Figures.
But you tried anyway,
and I appreciate it.
In one fluid motion,
your arms were about me,
holding me to your chest
while I tried to refill my lungs with air.
Even through the snot and tears,
I could smell your laundry detergent,
and was comforted.
In that moment,
I could feel your heart race.

*But what you'll never know is mine did too.

No matter where I look today,
There are roses with notes that say,
"I love you, dear. Let's run away
Together; I can't wait another day."

Here I am -- once again, alone.
This time I've banished boys to the "friend zone";
I'm independent and can hold my own.
I need no man, or a beautiful stone.

Yet, I'm not content with the fee
I pay for solidarity.
I've no one to call me "honey"
Or to leave the light on for me.

Deep green eyes radiate a fear of inadequacy. . .
and intensity i'm not sure i'm capable of withstanding.
They tell me the horrors of your past,
and of the words which your lips lack the ability to form...
but we both need to hear them.