In these cobwebbed corners of this well worn book:
sits a picture, torn and wrinkled, covering in dust and soot.
There are faces, and sweaty hands, covering in glowing spots,
there are girls looking so vindictive, there are boys posing for the shot:
he is smiling, and I am grinning, as our secret moment's.. caught.
Three years ago I was simple, made of Starbucks and bright things.
I was oh so very different, covering in bangles, and studded rings.
My heart was always indifferent, sitting eagerly on my sleeve,
looking here and there for the next, and better thing.
Heartbreaks will always change you,
and "I've moved on" will always sting.
Even when the loves been long gone,
you still feel that tiny little something
clinging to that.. last beat.
Last kiss.
Last note.
Last poem.
Last.. anything.
To reassure yourself it was worth it.
She really loved you,
or he really cared.
That regardless of the "not" speaking,
they'd keep promises.. and still be there.
That even states couldn't separate
the 'feelings', or chances you put at stake..
I am standing on rocks, sitting so very high,
standing quiet. I am rethinking choices, regretting
and fretting, lecturing myself about the never again's:
Never, ever, again's.
Not you