Music is not a weapon I wield with such grace these days.

It's mostly a necessary thing I try to master in the comfort of my own room.

A new year, a new start. Or at least it seems that way. I don't really care to know where I'm going to start over in this new year.

My hands feel frail and coarse, like they've never gone swimming, or like they've always gone swimming.

I barely type with the swiftness I used to. My arms grow tired, and I grow just as tired. I am not myself these days, but these days are getting longer and longer.

I fear my death most nights.

Thanatophobia is a type of illness unlike insomnia, but similar no doubt.

Every day I wish you were here to hold my hand, but when I ask what will I do without you here, you tell me "I'm honestly going to be fine."

What part of that is fine anyway?

But you're right.

I shouldn't cling to you as much as I do.

I said before in a previous poem that I didn't want to scare you away while trying to be a friend.

I just hurt so often and pray so little.

Falling apart while you move away and yet, there is no safe haven for people like me.

But people like you seem to think the I'm okay.

And I wonder every day...

Why you think so.