You smiled at me
You held me close
You promised me, looking me in the eye
You took all I was
You made me trust you
You made me love you
And now that you're gone, leaving behind my heart in a thousand pieces
Which piece am I supposed to follow
When I'm told
Follow your heart

17 days passed by,
I guess that you're completely over me now
When you passed by,
my hands reached out for an embrace
but those eyes were not looking at me anymore–
it gazes deeply into another girl's eyes
I guess she's the one,
the lucky one.

17 months passed by,
but I couldn't seemed to move on
everyday I waited for you to show up at my door
but then the bitter truth stay crystal clear
yet these tears could not change anything.

It has been 7 years,
since the day you bid farewell
but here I am in my room—
taking my coffee as usual;
to fill this emptiness,
to fill this longing of missing you
with another dose of caffeine.

a.r

Dear Mr. Someday,
I am looking for something that cannot be found.
A picturesque alternate reality
where my heart isn't a punching bag for every boy who's ever
"just wanted to see me be happy".
On days where the sun is the second to last thing I have left to believe in, I realize.
There's still you.

I'd like to know how you are.
Are you happy?
Are you seeing somebody?
Oh.
I understand.
I realized that my hands weren't the best at holding onto things that inevitably leave. Everyone always just
leaves.
Maybe in another lifetime.

Dear Mr. Someday,
I will not wait for you.
I will not stare until the grains of sand forget how to fall
waiting for you to come find me.
I refuse to dedicate my life in finding a man that
cannot love me more than I can love myself.
Your hands did not pick me up from the bathroom floor at 3am,
your arms did not hold onto me as the earthquake inside me
shook me until I could no longer stand,
your words did not take the sting out of my insecurity,
after every heartbreak,
after every night spent in the corridors of my mind
wondering what the **** is wrong with me,
it was not you.
It was me.
And it will always be
me.

Dear Mr. Someday,
I'd like to meet you.
I hope the feeling is mutual.
Hopefully, we can catch up on everything we missed.

A girl met a boy on the beach
It was the sixth sunset of May.
She was wearing a crimson dress,
His hair was in a perfect set.

"I think I've seen you before," the boy said
"Yes," with determination in her eyes she added:
"You had seen me but you never take the chance."
Looking down at her fingers,
He knew,
He missed the chance.

You were never good with names.
I swallowed your every attempt of choking my name
through our lies up your throat with a smile.
Your smile holds every last bit of my happiness
and now I wonder why I haven't been happy.
Oh, right.

You are the mismatched sock in my life.
You were hardly there; but when you left-lost for good-
nothing was right.
Replace my my heart now. You took that too.

But I'd rather feel you through this pain
than feel nothing at all, because then at least I know it was real.
I'd rather remember you as teardrops
because at least I'd feel you on my skin again.
I'd rather hear you in my screams
and speak through pen and paper
than to realize;
you're gone.

You gave me a guitar string heart.
Every word you played me with reverberated in my chest
making me feel like I was something worth listening to.
As though I had the power
to drop the crescendo of your eyes,
to mine,
and love you to the beat of your favourite everything.
I was wrong.
Now all that's left is an out-of-tune guitar
that hasn't been played in two years.

I measure my worth,
By what I have accumulated,
Which really isn't much:
A diseased liver,
A book of poetry,
And a broken heart.
I am what I said I was:
Which really isn't much

Subject to the inadequacy
as result of one faulty gene that resides within me,
I smile.
I smile with teeth too large for my small mouth,
and dimples like caverns
that remind me
that some holes are meant to be there.

His eyelashes flutter against my cheek, awake,
and I can feel the two years away from him.
He is rainy days and the first snow fall of the year.
He is the first time I lied to my parents,
he is the summer carnival,
and the 3am shoulder to cry on.
He comes when he is meant to come,
and leaves when he is meant to leave.
But that doesn't mean that when he does,
it doesn't hurt, because it did.

And then I realize
that no matter how tightly
he can hold me,
or how many poems I write,
he is the last fallen leaf of autumn,
and I am the first frost of winter.
Almost,
but not quite.