You're Still My Poetry

You ripped me apart

until the shards of my heart

lost their way

to be whole again.

For so long,

I’ve tried to fix myself

and normalize everything

while living

in a caricature of a broken love

and in a pad of shattered words,

but you know what,

my foolishness

still messes

and still misses your lies

and every dirty thing

that made me fall

in love with you .

My late night thoughts

still flood my head

with artworks

that portray your face,

and the paper

of my shattered poetry

still screams

the sound of your name

between the spaces

reserved for your return.

Maybe I’m stupid enough

to still wish

for you to find

your way back to me.

Maybe I’m dumb enough

to still want

to have a taste

of the storm

that once destroyed me.

I want to find

the self I lost

the moment

you found your way

away from me,

but my head

is still coming back

to the memories

that make me

lose myself

a little more.

I want to forget

every little thing

about us,

because these

little things hurt me the most.

I want to stop

writing you

countless poems;

but then again,

all my poems

are still named after you,

all my words

still long for you,

because darling,

you are still my poetry,

you are still my favorite kind of tragedy,

and I still can't get over you.