Dry, Barren Field.

Sat on a park bench,
diary on my lap,
end of my pencil chewed,
my memories were tapped.

Young first love,
dangerous, isn't it?
you flooded my mind,
so did the scars and the split.

I do not regret us,
my scars have healed,
yet, my heart,
feels like a dry, barren field.

No, i don't write for you,
to you, i do not cling,
it's just that, i hope,
one day, it'll be spring.