Not Being Sure, Exactly.

I'm not sure what, exactly, rankles inside.
It doesn't seem right
This being here, alone.
It's like a fishing net, cast over the side, broke
The links holding it severed,
Without once feeling the pressure of a catch.

I'm not sure what, exactly, makes me feel this unease.
But tonight seems colder,
A little less welcoming than before.
And now I know, that when things are hardest,
There is no one here to let me know
That things will be alright, and that they're there for you.

I'm not sure what, exactly, hurts so badly.
I can't seem to distinguish
What is pain and what is shock.
And though I was happy for a while,
I always knew it was likely to go like this.
Still, to think that it was never meant to be:
It aches too much for me to start crying now.