What We Never Had

A part of me cried as I wrote this book;
My fingers plucking wounds I never really understood.

Why do we put our hearts through so much pain?
Why do we forget that love, when it enters a heart,
will always break it—at least most of the time?

The story, built like a monument,
ends up in ruins,
And we are left to gather the rubble alone.

These poems are the rubble left behind,
and as I pick them up one by one,
My fingers bleed in many places.

Maybe, it connects with some of you.
I hope it doesn’t connect with all.
I hope your love stays true to its name.

But for those who have loved and lost,
here is a piece of me,
of my heart,
so you know you aren’t alone in this.

What we never had are poems of unbelonging,
because hearts never belong.
They lead…
They wander…
They move on.