You
With your words
The Knife.
You.
Me
Knowing and not knowing,
Afraid and clueless.
Me.
Us
A thing that used to be,
The dust on the mantle.
Us.
We
Will never be the same
The blood that was spilled across the floor.
We.
This crime scene filled with pain and sorrow and regret.  The murderer and the victim one in the sameâbut also separate.  Two hearts that both dance to the same miserable song.
Oof... I wrote this one a while ago...
(Also this poem is dedicated to my father, like a like a lot of my poems)