it's not final, surely
that's the tragedy
it's not the beginning
or the end
it's not the start
nor the excuse
it's what it is
a hot, smelly mess
a time to reflect
on what we have left
it means something, doesn't it

today
i heard the voices
in my head
proper
what's wrong with you
whassup
what's going on
i don't know
why are you stumbling like that
i dunno
i want
all of this to go away
i want everything to end
but hang on dave
it'll be okay
hang in there, it'll all make sense
let it go, by all means
keep it to yourself
feel as much as you can, whatever
of course it hurts
let it bleed
you're just not ready yet

how many times can you say the word oxygen in one breath?
ha haa, i thought so.

reach for it with both hands
if you can
hold on to it
reach it from both sides

reach it through the storm
when you do
make the most of it
reach between the lines

teach them what you know
if you can
hold on to it
teach them what it means

teach another lesson
when you do
make the most of it
a teacher's what it needs

don't feel left out, you know what it's about
you had me fooled the first time, and i'm out

'why's it so secret?'
i asked
just moments before
she didn't tell me

chasing walls
in the hope that
they'll catch up
is like admitting
that we put them there
in the first place

it's happened already, we know this, for sure
but nothing solidifies it more concretely
as when i hear you say it to your friends

it happened a year ago, completely, for sure
because when we both started acting discretely
i had already seen two different ends

one in which the path would straighten
and we'd grow the same way, as before
one in which we end up so far apart
that it wouldn't
matter
it might even have healed by now
but i didn't anticipate the third
or the fourth
or the fifth
nor the sixth
the seventh, eleventh
the eighth, the hate
the ninth, not mine
not even yours, surely

because i really care for you, and i don't want you to die
i just want us to be honest about what's left of you and i