The first 20 poems I ever wrote.

Moving on

I wondered if the poems were for me,
did he mean them? All the promises that we were meant to keep.
Was it reality or a dream I dreamt.

We were infinite in our infinity.
Now all that's left is a memory of casualty.

I asked myself, “Are you moving on?” The heart refused to answer, and dodged the question like an artist playing con.

They never gave a warning this would hurt so much. Now all I do is sit, numb, and crave his touch.