There are still nights Where the frequency in my head Pierces the silence, And every face I thumb through Looks like yours.
Your ghost breathes heavy In this house And you still manage to Be the center of every conversation.
Part of me hated that about you.
There's something inside that says Remembering the fire and the snow Is both betrayal and therapy; You were not, In any sense of the word, Perfect. But the blood dried on your face Once ran in your veins And your heart beat with How fiercely you fought Against the world.
In retrospect, you were my Biggest muse.
Part of me loved that about you.
Quite a bit of my writing had been - and still is, I guess - inspired by my late sister. It's been one year, three weeks, and six days.