I don't think that I have the power
to relate what I know of you
through the prism of a narrative.
I tried to tell your story yesterday
in my carefully constructed
grammatically correct way.
Failing miserably at a proper
biography, as you deserve,
I must recount what I know
in the only way I can.
Within my heart live a series of images,
memories burned into me
by the intensity of our meetings
and the ferocity of the late night
phone calls born of that chemical
with no name, equal parts sorrow and flame.
It was easy to find you,
but God it was hard to leave.
From the first kiss to the last
and everything in between.
I don't know how many times
you called me crying so hard
that you couldn't even speak.
How many times you told me
that you wanted to die without
even a second thought for what
those words did to my heart.
I accepted it all though,
every single strand of you,
gave you all the love I knew how.
There is no word for the sorrow
that comes with knowing that
I couldn't save you from yourself.
It didn't matter how many razors
I took from your trembling hands,
how much blood I wiped from your thigh
or how many tears I shed for you.
At the end, that last night and morning
just a week ago now,
you looked right through me
with eyes that didn't see.
I took you in my arms and there was nothing.
The girl I knew and loved doesn't exist anymore.
I'm sorry that you had to die in my heart,
but know that I loved you enough
for it to be killing me inside.
I guess that the boy in me is gone now,
since I walked away anyway.
I didn't cry, I don't regret it.
You're just one more ghost after all.