One would think love poems are a good thing.

I guess it just depends where you are.

Years ago, I would’ve adored the flowery poems

dedicated to love, to their lovers,

calling out - typing - their names:

Oh Rebecca!

Matthew, I love you!

Jennifer, I miss you…

Years ago, I would’ve smiled shyly at the fluttery phrases

that sounded like they belonged in Shakespeare’s dictionary.

Oh, sweet sorrow!

This must be destiny, fate!

How I loathe not to be in your presence~

Years ago, I would have not known the pleasures

of what I believed to be love.

But I wouldn’t have known the pain

of falling out of love, either.

Everyone always says,

“better to have love and lost

than never have loved at all!”

I understand the sentiment, I really do,

but what they fail to mention, perhaps purposely,

is the yearning for the new love,

for what you lost.

Before I felt love, I didn’t know what I was missing.

Now, losing that love…

there’s a part of me missing.

So, where am I?

The cynical transition between infatuated

and happily single, I suppose.

Any other time, I would love the poems,

dripping with sappy love,

but nothing can piss off a lonely person more

than other people’s relationships.

~~~~~

pardon my negativity

your poems are all lovely, I promise