Poetry

I tell myself I’m over you -
yet find myself thinking of you,
far more often than I should.
Yet it doesn’t hurt like it use too -
now only a phantom pain lingering
after a long ago cut off limb.
Does that mean I've come to accept?
Does that mean I've pass through
all the dreaded stages of grief?
 
I can see I've tried to beg,
I've tried to bargain.
I've been consumed with rage,
sometimes I still am...
I’ve cried my heart out,
I've shouting to the stars in a desperate plight...
I felt the hopelessness set in
as the realization near drowned me;
I will never find comfort in your arms again