It had been too many winters since I had last seen him, heard him, touched him. Since I was engulfed in the aroma of who he was. Who I was. Who we were. I heard the keys rattle. The door swung open. Hard but silent. I could hear his footsteps crackle along the floorboards. Deep in stride, but lacking purpose. For the first time in a long time, I was afraid. I had to go. I needed to go. I was already gone. But it was too late. It happened. His eyes locked with mine, and in that moment, I couldn't look away. For this was a look I had seen all too often. A look of my own causation. An empty look. Full of longing, longing for hope. But was there any left? There couldn't be. Not for me anyway. Not for us. But even then, his gaze did not falter. And I swear for just a moment I could of seen him smile. It was ever so slight, but lingering in the background. He edged closer. And closer. Too close. I wanted to move but I was frozen in his presence. I shouldn't have come back here. Should I? In that moment he took me in his hand. His eyes staring deep into who I was. Who we used to be. His eyes then flickered to my face. I could tell he wanted to touch me. He hadn't touched me in so long. I hadn't felt him in so long. But  I wanted to. I needed to. And then it happened. Gentle and soft his palm caressed the length of my face, tracing the apples of my cheeks. How I longed to feel him. But I didn't. He didn't. We didn't. Feel anything at all. In that moment his eyes engorged into a rage of which I had never before seen. I stepped back. But to no avail. The frame flung across the floor, the glass breaking, shattering. My face slipping from its encasement. Falling to the floor, just like I had done so many winters ago. Pick me back up. Pick me back up. It was all I could think. It was all I could say. All I could plead. But he just turned round, closing his eyes. Closing on me. Like I wasn't even there. And in truth, I wasn't. My whole life amounting to a photograph in a frame. A paper reminder of who I used to be. Of who we used to be. Of who we never will be again.

For a photo can say a thousand words, but never the ones that matter.

I used to think that the world was the problem,
The skies were too grey and the oceans too deep,
The people too sour, beneath a shell too sickeningly sweet,

I used to think that the world was the problem,
With the voices too loud and the daylight too long,
Within a fraudulent masquerade for which I did not belong,

I used to think that the world was the problem,
Until the voices grew louder and reality fled,
Realising my own mind was a problem I couldn't behead,

I used to think that I was the problem,
That my self-induced suffering grew from within,
For I was the remote of life but forgotten how to begin,

I used to think that I was the problem,
That as I grew darker so did that of the night,
Selectively blinding any shred of comfort in sight,

I used to think that I was the problem,
Until I remembered to every problem theres a solution,
That there must be a way to drown out the tiring pollution,

I used to think I could find the solution,
Of how to fix the world, of how to fix me,
To be the person I always wanted, in a place I wanted to be,

I used to think I could find the solution,
Hours, months, years wasted in strife,
As this on-going search took over my life,

Looking for problems, trying to blame,
Empty-handed without a solution, huddled in shame,

Wasting away within a life that i'd never forgive,
For among all the calculations I forgot how to live.

Golden cockleshells grace the trees,
Encrusted with the sweet smell of day,
Crackling sounds amongst the bees,
With warnings you'll soon be away,

Cranberries and gravy guiding you home,
To give thanks with your family near,
Here i'll wait for your words alone,
Praying for that day you'll appear,

Biding my time till the festivities end,
Grave anticipation of your return,
Out of sorts and somewhat mad,
For your words i've began to yearn,

This thanksgiving the feast is absent,
As I lurk to feed on the words you grace,
Perhaps some distance may do us some good,
For i'm hungover on your taste,

But I can't deny this addiction,
Transported by the sound of your voice,
My soul captivated without restriction,
A sense of joy looms without choice,

So here is where I bid you farewell,
Think of me and return home soon,
I'll dream of the words that you did tell,
Of how we'll meet under the light of the moon,

We are told to give thanks for the harvest,
But I think this year i'll give thanks to you,
The light within me you've been able to harness,
With the slightest thing that you do.

Nobody understands what it is like,
Living on the outside looking in,
To what is supposed to be your own life,
Within the depths of your control,

Nobody understand how it feels,
To be soaked by the scolding dampness,
To have tears dried up by your own sadness,
Of which you'll never really feel,

Nobody understands what it is like,
Trapped on the inside reaching out,
Unto a life you know is yours,
But will never really feel is so,

To feel a pain so real and shattering,
To fall into a thousand shards,
Of somebody else's mirror,
A distorted shadow of no recollection,

To be a fraud within a fraud,
Trapped within your own self-deception,
Yet forever lacking a grip on reality,
Or what it is meant to be,

Nobody understands what it is like,
To wake each morning with a strangers mind,
Forced to accept their thoughts and feelings,
To become someone you have never known,

To go to bed with the silence of sanctity,
Tracing a face of distinct familiarity,
Awoken to that unrecognisable,
Forever searching for that of yourself,

Nobody understands how it feels,
To never understand how it feels,
To never know how you feel,
To never know it is you that is feeling,

Nobody understand's what it is like,
To feel forced to feel somebody else's pain,
To share glimpses of happiness,
That you never really felt ever were yours,

To be dragged through the turmoil of something,
But forever gliding on the edge of nothing,
Being someone but no-one,
Feeling something but nothing,

Nobody understands what it is like,
To lack the sense of who you are,
To feel like a fraudster encapsulated within,
A reality that never feels quite yours,

Nobody understands what it is like,
To sleep with prayers that when you awake,
It will be you that does awake,
And not the one that tomorrow brings.

Yes, nobody understands what it is like,

But I do.


Do I?