The hopeless romantic in me seems to be dead,
Gone and buried.
I used to care,
Swoon,
Write poems,
Make sweet gestures.
But that is all but gone,
Or just seemingly lost.
I used to carry myself with pride,
But I seem to be a shriveled husk of my former self.
I'd give anything to feel the flutter of butterflies,
The beat skipped in my heart,
Just losing my breathe,
One more time.