Wrong Number*

*between January and May of this year I wrote but never published numerous poems for one reason or another, but I am going to type them up now; the asterisk will identify them to you in the future//

and how it hurts
much like the loss of a loved one
who's still there.
like a heart in plastic casing
soft enough to feel it's warmth
but still never really yours
and so it rips back to it's rightful owner
how unfair
for even though I pull and tear
I am never sharp enough to break right through

and so you'll leave
for some better place somewhere
and I'll be left alone to bear
with a tiny piece to small to claim as true

but I'll remember
those tiny works that cold december
that made me wonder if you wanted this all too.
I dream of talking until midnight
and your eyes blinded by the sunlight
and those flowers which were promised but never grew

I suppose your happiness will just have to do.