Perfectly Imperfect Me

I still write poems for you.

You’re gone, and I don’t think you’re ever going to come back. At least, not as a person I know.

You hurt me, and you don’t even seem to think you did. “How can,” you asked scornfully questioning, “Can words hurt? Or break a heart?”

I don’t know, but all I know it, I use to have a whole heart before I met you.

And that hurts.