I’m beginning to fear the absence of feeling
Because we had it all right, when we were
seventeen years old, we would love so hard
let our hearts be pierced, like our lips and nose,
our love poems,
in all different types of prose,
the symbology of a simple cut out heart
from leftover fabric of a school project,
we’d carry around, as if it were a part of us,
but chided and disregarded,
“how could you possibly know love,
you all just started,
you’re like puppies playing,
pretending you feel,
but I’m older and wiser and
you should know it’s not real,
just wait ‘till you’re both older,
and then you will know,
you’ll look back on this,
and thank me for telling you so.”
But now that I’m older, twenty nine now,
the farther away this concept blooms,
exists in the past,
love is a construct, a word for ignited delusions,
that seethe and seep deep
as a life intrusion,
I’ve felt absolutely nothing for a long time
I sit in my room and I wish I could cry,
something, anything,
I just want to feel,
I pine for the days,
When I believed it was real.