Missing

I don't miss you nowadays, your memories a distant blur,

I'm a pro at expressing myself, not a bumbling amateur.

Earlier I used to pine for you, you were my eternal muse,

Now I just pick my pen and write, I've no time for that ruse.

 

A lot of water has flown since- I now write a sonnet a day,

On subjects ordinary and varied, some sombre, some gay.

Rarely do I talk about my past, my sonnets aren't about love,

Rarer in them to find a mention, of you or the God above. 

Like God you are a background hum, omnipresent and ignored, 

My poems are about myself- a show of creativity when I get bored.

I don't need you for my passion, I don't need you for my pain,

I don't need you as a reminder, of that friendship gone down the drain. 

Just when I think I'm over you, that I'm finally free at last,

A memory surfaces on Facebook, of a poem from my past.