I still pick up my phone every day,
at the same time you used to call,
I hold it close, knowing if it rings,
it will be someone else,
chiding myself for not letting go.
I lay, unmoving,
like an old dog beaten into submission,
I am afraid to let anyone else touch me,
hoping you will come back for me,
knowing I will die where I lay.
I write poems as messages to you,
praying that one day you will read one
and something in it will remind you
of the love you once had for me.
Knowing you will never see them,
I post them anyway.