Here I am again, as many of us have been over several years.
A series of teary-eyed nights, ember-end cigarettes; all seared into my lungs and my mind.
I feel myself writing as I sigh.
Scribbling as I still pine,
playing events in my head like a movie looking always to rewind.
And instead I look up and I'm staromg at a younger version of me thinking
"It's a mirror."
Because I've been foolish like a child.
Wanting to grow but always moving nearer
to a more-closed more-hurt version of me wishing to be lulled
to sleep.

You can give so much love, and effort,
and still be met with indominable ache.
And that's okay.
Sometimes there's no bad guys.
You can make no mistakes and still end your nights feeling some sort of way.