I wanted to write a poem about how I felt.
I sat there with a pen in my hand
And a blank piece of paper.

I then realized that was exactly how I felt.
And I was done.

It's okay to cry.
Cry a river if you have to.
Cry if it helps you to breathe again.

Every poem I write is about you
Every thought is laced with images of your eyes
And how they crinkled a little when you smiled
Every breath I take is labored because my lungs fill with memories instead of air and it becomes harder to breathe
Every sleepless night I spend thinking of your voice and how it sounded when the syllables you spoke formed my name
And every dream I dream is a fantasy of us that never came true because you left without notice
And now I'm stuck here trying to figure out how to stop my world from revolving around you.

I wasn't ready.
I wasn't ready for your emerald eyes to bat their way into my heart. I wasn't ready for my world to revolve around you. I wasn't ready for you to act like you cared. I wasn't ready to have you rip yourself away from me after I'd grown attached. I wasn't ready to try and develop a new habit to forget about my habit of loving you. I wasn't prepared for all the pain that comes from withdrawals. I wasn't ready to be used. I wasn't ready to be thrown away. I wasn't ready to battle these recurring dreams of me in your arms. I wasn't ready for my fantasy to be shattered by the harsh, cold, reality that you never cared.
I wasn't ready.
But who ever is?