i’m crying now not because you’re hurting me.
i’m crying for the me who’s grieving because he held on to empty words. look at his hands: even though you already left, casket sealed, buried six feet under. his hands are still holding the crumbs you left piece by piece in that same red brick road that showed promise but brought him to where he is now. a funeral: of what seems to be you — for the lack of a better term — the idea of you.

so the next time you say that you’re ready to put up with me. my dear, kindly understand. that you’re putting up with me now, me from then, and me every time i see the glimpse of the future.