Time heals, they say,
but have you ever noticed
how every word you breathe is a sharp, unrelenting sting?

How you choose to speak them anyway,
no matter the agony they bring?

Have you ever noticed
the way I pick at every bruised scab
on the depths of my frayed heart,
that I once allowed you to hold?

Maybe it was my fault,
how I needed you to stay,
even though all my efforts
were nothing but in vain.

And as the blue-painted skies
slowly start to turn grey,
I still can’t find it in me
to look at you with disdain.

Although you might prefer to give up
on everything and leave
than watch wet paint dry;
I’m the one who's left to grieve,
over every truth and lie.