I don't see a light.
Just the place we carved memories into time that was tore apart,
Gone.
Like a dream.

You didn't expect me to say that?

But you didn't know by some miracle when I would be working so let the town whisper to you about how i really cry and feel how it maybe doesn't make you want to stop me from feeling worried or sad

Do they make you proud?
Dive so far in and bring yours out?
Do they light yours up?
Have they added onto the things you should be proud of?
Obviously.

I found it once before a few months ago and I couldn't remember then still. I actually put it in the trash because it reminded me of him-how ******* ironicly pathetic of me. I decided it was a bad idea, something told me I couldn't throw it away. I dug it out and hid it. I sometimes lose myself in daydreams where I'm brave and trusting and you would be delighted to receive it. I cry at those almost the most. You know how to tear a gut out and teach how life isn't fair.

Like thousands of pixels,
He disappeared
She hits the cold hard ground
Walls no longer here the sound

I wouldn't need to yell what's already being whispered to you

And I wish you were here because I have never been so scared and i ******* need you and i need help and i need you to tell me it's okay and i need you to show me the way and i need you to hold me and i need you to just be here. I need you like i have never needed anything else

I've never felt more inadequate. A few boards are missing, the remainder are weathered and mossy. In a sick twist of karma, I'll sit on this porch alone until I realize my enough is enough, just not for you.

I wish I could go back there to tell you this. I wish you weren't so far away but every time I reach out now, it's just all the things you left behind.

How sad right? The blunt of a joke reminded of everything and it punches back this existence that no longer wants it.

"Not long at all..."

You can remind me of who I was but that doesn't mean it's who you are still.

When you find it, let me know. See if it'd work for me.

I learned to not double message after a semi questionable (on my. Part) mutual acquaintance. But you remember how you just wanted to say thanks for me defending you? And you set down, and I wanted to feel wood. I tried my best.

It wasn't enough.

Death has rotten
me from inside out,
you finally came back.
How does it feel?
Do your worst.
my mind a battlefield,
my soul a sunken broken ship.
My heart is tattered,
eyes filled of hollow.
How does it feel?
The words of spoken, mispoken and
unspoken rush
through these vains.
I hate the person I had become that hurt.
I hate the person that all the pain I've caused made me.
A life spent wondering what if,
a life spent bound to hell.
I deserve more than what you have in store.
I deserve poor,
freak,
weak.
I deserve death.
And years later,
your wish is fulfilling.
So how does it feel?

Sometimes life isn't fair.

Now I'm left to wonder if it's fair to touch another heart, another soul, another being. No matter how many layers are cleaned off there will always be this one that stays. Permanent like a tattoo. A youth forever remembered by all the things I should have done. It'd not be fair to leave those black fingerprints on them when I leave because I don't think anyone could ever make me forget this.

And when I wipe my eyes clean, the black turns to liquid and runs into my eyes. The pain is close to how I remember thinking you'd forget me by Fall. But it was me. It was me that let you down.

Everything is quiet now. Silent like the evening you sang that song. And I can feel the way it made me feel empty because it felt like you took everything out of me to admire but slammed it back in when I pointed out the similarities and you said no, it's for when you find the one. But you were looking down then and I just realized that too.

And now you sing it to the one and I feel the ache again but it's different because you're not here and you never will be. And in brief moments I wonder if it tastes bitter to sing it, to feel those words on your lips. If it reminds you of the table that is long gone and the way the birds were singing in the cooling down summer evening air. Of how I had my hands gripping the bench on each of my sides because I was so nervous. And I wonder if they knew I was the first to hear you sing it. But there's a first for everything and there's always a last until the end. And I'm always the first that's replaced and forgotten.

But I'm only talking to myself here. Reliving this past alone. Drowning in black salt water by myself. And now I'm just asking your ghost when the air will be gone.