But I might just leave,
it's too uncomfortable now.
I told you too much,
and you fell to the ground,
scared for me,
scared for you.

Though grateful for concern,
I thought you would have said
        something by now.
I apologized for my outburst, for
        bringing you in when you
        should not have known.
Now my gratefulness for concern is
        withering,
and my comfort around you is
        weakening,
because you have said nothing since
        you showed me concern.
I just wish you'd free me of myself.
I beat myself up over this - and all
        you need to do
is say a word or two.

I haven't felt this way
since the witch took my smile away.
I've gone back to the negativity,
stepped back into the doubt, fallen
        back to empty.
Even though I've removed myself
        from toxic air,
the fumes absorbed through my hair,
and into my mind as it traveled.

Nostalgia creeps around every
        corner.
The smell of the fresh, cold spring air
puts me in a familiar field within.
The sweet songs of songbirds
pull me back to my days as an
        observer, a watcher of nature.

But the field is nowhere in sight,
the birds are here, but the grass is
        not.
I cannot tell where I stand anymore,
I stand straight in air that I've known,
thinking it's one I left behind.

Emptiness has never been dropped
upon my head this early in
Earth's rebirth.
Nostalgia is a killer,
and I am its victim.

It's our last night in the same room,
and you ignore my presence,
smell up the room with your
rotten baby powder stench,
and burn my eyes with your light
because you knew I was sleeping…
and you thought I was the bad roommate.

It has scratches and marks,
folds and wrinkles,
some lines from my oil pastels.
Some gloss and color have peeled away,
the corners folded in or out -
they decide.

It's not old...
fresh on the paper,
into the world almost one year ago.
The colors it shows have aged almost three years,
but its holder not.

Its tears and its scratches,
its marks and its lines,
the folds and the creases,
are from a year of hands holding,
from a year of moving from desk to book,
book to desk.

My wall is empty white now,
only bearing the bright colors
the beat-up photograph beholds.
The smiles, the two smiles, on a day of celebration,
remind me of days better,
of happiness that was,
happiness that can be.

The beat-up photograph
is one that is bittersweet.
Sadness for the one smile not with me,
for the other that used to be.
Glee for the memories made,
for the laughs laughed
and the smiles grinned.
Melancholy for longing to go back,
leave the dark behind.

Its tears and rips,
folds and scrapes,
marks and chips,
they avoid the teeth -
the teeth smiling,
the teeth reminding.
A forehead scratched,
but eyes avoided...
presenting true happiness attained.
I see the truth through eyes on paper
in a beat-up photograph.

So many people tell me I look happy.
I want to tell them it's all a lie,
but then I'll just break down and cry.

We finished talking;
no more words to say,
no more time to spare.
Yet I still had a story to tell,
but time was gone.

What I wanted to share was far
        too graphic, far too heavy,
to be told before parting.
An eagle can't swoop to the lake
to scare the fish.
It must complete its task
and take its time.
If you only have time to scare,
you don't have time to spare,
save the story if you care.

I visited and it happened again.
I grew excited and saw who I needed to see,
for the most part,
but I always forget that a visit
requires an end -
I would have to leave at some time.