They say that time heals all but time has come and gone and come and gone again and I'm still raw, unstitched, not even scarred, let alone healed.
If I close my eyes, my body transports so easily to the times and spaces we shared and the times and spaces where I waited for you, for a response, for you to appear, for you to even give me a single solitary syllable, but even that was too much.
The hands of clocks have grayed into a new generation and still whenever I take two steps toward something better that voice of your nothings tells me I'm not enough I'm not ready I need more of things I can't even identify.
The more I know myself the more I question why I was never enough for you, and I wonder if me 2.0 still wouldn't be enough for whichever version of you that's been installed. Would you know me now? Do I know you now? Am I still not enough? Is that what I'm striving for?
The door is closed, but the doubt is always o p e n for debate.