Heartbreak Poems

Not a Poem

This isn't a poem
It's a feeling I keep forgetting exists. A feeling I miss so much it hurts that I can't feel it right this second

The feeling is late night on the cusp of summer. A day when outside feels like an extension of your living room, and jeans with a tank top is comfortable and fitting. The feeling is similar to a theme park I went to once, and everyone I've ever been to at the same time.

The park in particular was odd. Designed from the inside to be outside, with fake trees lining fake sidewalks, and a busy boardwalk missing its ocean. The walls were painted like a summer day, and the crisp air was the only thing missing.

The feeling is like talking a walk on the boardwalk along Coney Island, laughing with whatever odd sample they'd been giving out at the gate of the park. One hand holding another, slightly damp with the sweat of the oncoming days, and the other linked with a closest friend

Watching the culture of the town, be it a sea of bikes toppled next to one's placed with care a prided, or a sea empty of people, cold and anxious and impatient.

The instruments and music blaring, or the slight of a familiar face retrieving a 100th slice of pizza for the day to a drunk sophomore girl who's contributed numerous times to that amount this night alone.

Walking up the steps of the local hangout, feeling the end-of-spring chill turn into the heat of the hustle and bustle of the newly awoken night life.

A feeling when the sky is dark and the stars asleep, while the world around you is bright and alive, like a city forgotten by the sun.

It's a nice feeling, having the people you live around you on the perfect night

But it's worse in the winter, alone and high. A year after the feeling lived and faded, you sit, alone, tears in your eyes, as you look at the pictures in the walls of this captured feeling, wishing you could get closer than the plastic. The people are gone or changed and the moment is behind you.

The anticipation of waiting months and months to see if the feeling will even come back. Hoping, now praying, it will, even after you see the hand you once held now living the feeling you used to

This wasn't a poem, but a feeling. Getting carried away and landing in a pit of nostalgia and grief. Maybe it is a poem, after all.