Untitled (a poem)

You’re into poetry now, watching from afar as you post your little love poems clearly not meant for me. I sometimes wished they did. 

Reading people pouring their feelings out is something I didn’t think you were capable of, not because you’re stupid, it’s because you never read mine. I guess im jealous of the poets feelings you get to read when you never tried to decipher mine the same way. I guess now i know what my feelings meant to you.

Do you write about me? I’ve written words and words about you i feel like I’m drowning in a sea of words, a sea you’ll never get to see.

“Life is too short send them the letter” people on the internet say, but how many letters does it take for you to finally listen? Do my feelings not exist to you? I feel like a ghost, still in the past haunting you with the feelings we once had for each other, still i lay awake at night, haunting you hoping one day you come back to me. 

But you won’t. your heart, mind, and soul belong to another and your absence is always a silent reminder on how you were once mine. 

Did she show you the poetry you’re reading? Is this another way you’re trying to get her attention? I can’t help but wonder these things because you’re so quiet.

I wished you weren’t so quiet, i wished you were just as much of a writer as i am so i knew what you were thinking, but I can’t force you to be someone you’re not. 

Wishing will only get me so far and i need to swallow the hard truth that you don’t love me anymore, you care for me not the same as you once did and now just like all your friends i do not interest you. 

So enjoy your poetry my love, because as long as you keep reading it I’ll be the one writing it and i think that’s what makes us different.