You know the feeling,
When you want to cry,
And you need to cry,
But the tears won't come.
It's like they've left you too.

Your heart has barely come out of recovery,
The wounds still fresh.
The cut still raw.
And yet you hand it to some new flirt,
Not realizing (or caring) about the damage that may be done.
If you could see past beauty and false personalities,
I'm standing here.
"I won't hurt you." I whisper out.
But you don't hear me.

I sit here,
Just listening to the rain.
I wish to God that it was you instead,
Talking about your day, your friends, anything.
But no.
I'm just sitting here.
Listening to the sound of this **** rain.

He was he,
     We were we,
          But without you,
              There cannot be me.

I remember the first time I met her gaze,
Her eyes seemed as deep as the Atlantic,
But yet greener than the new grass spring brings.
I remember the first time I made her laugh,
Hearing that was like having an orchestra of angels play Mozart,
Just a little off beat.
I remember the first time she caused me to get butterflies,
Like seeing a child laugh or smile,
The happiness grew.
I remember the first time I made her mad,
The guilt swept over me like an inevitable storm of emotions,
But that couldn't match the pain.
I remember the first time she said she loved someone,
And when that someone wasn't me,
My heart shattered and its parts scattered into oblivion.
I remember the first time she had her heart broken,
Anger ran through me like adrenaline,
So I clenched my fists and held her close.
I remember the first time I told her I loved her,
My hands trembled like a leaf,
And I nervously awaited her response.
I remember the last time she met my eyes,
My heart stopped and so did my breathing,
As she uttered the fatal words.
"I don't love you."

Fictitious. Such a strange word. When fiction is fiction itself.

They say home is where the heart is,
But then people tell me my heart is wherever he is,
When the only place I want my heart,
Is with me.