I don't remember how a poem is supposed to go.

I stare at blank pages and hope for an inspiration that never comes.

You stole so much from me, but this? This is the worst of it.

You stole my love for poetry, and I can never forgive you for that.

My heart aches for you. I don't know why, but it does. It needs you. I need you. You'll probably never even see this. That's the crazy part. I'm down on my knees begging for your name to come across my screen, and you'll never see it. It hurts so much. I miss your love, your warmth, and your consistency. I miss you so much...

And you'll never know.

I do not crave your touch, the subtle brush of your hand against mine.

I do not dream the taste of your lips nor do I fantasize the smoothness of your skin beneath my fingertips.

It is not an ache that fills the hole in my heart, carved in the likeness of your image.

It is not longing that has settled into my bones and keeps me awake at night.

I do not tremble at the sound of your voice.

For I do not love you. I never have and I never will.