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Zane Apr 2019
today i stepped outside into the overwhelming sunlight
the first breath since i accepted our end.
content i have been,
proud of my progression towards the state of being 'okay'
and out of nowhere
it flashed into my head,
the one memory of us i haven't shaken.
you,
me,
alone in our bedroom
bill haley blasting out of my record player
our hands entwined, twirling about the room,
eyes locked on each other
and your smile,
the holiest of smiles.
cracked wide to reveal your teeth,
uncontrolled laughter exploding outward
a snapshot in time
of innocence,
love,
what has been,
what will never be
but what was so
beautiful.
#sad #breakup
Zane Apr 2019
if
if hating me wills you to blossom
i will bear it
if cursing my very existence brings you unbridled happiness
i will take it
it being no such act of selflessness.

my heart hurts
hearing you speak of our love,
never being;
warm tears grace my cheek
Zane Mar 2019
i dont help
i only have a want for myself.
i dont care
you cry in front of me and i feel nothing.

what is selflessness?
i wish i knew.
Zane Feb 2019
it hurts so much.
everything in my room reminds me of you.
i can't sleep in our bed,
your silhouette lays claim to half of it
i can't step in our shower,
impressions of wet makeout sessions adore the walls
i can't eat on our table,
because the time you swore you loved me, the morning you sat across from me plays like a broken cassette
i can't lay on the couch,
i see your eyes burning into me, laughing at my horse impression
i can't.
i just, can't.
i can't do anything, when all i do, all i own, is a memory of you.
who am i to be, now that we are just fragments?
Zane Jan 2019
every night
i feel like i'm suffocating
but every morning
i wake up
alive
Zane Dec 2018
Your soft hair gleams in the light,
a morning selfie that graces my feed.
The more I gaze into your deep eyes,
the longer I feel as if could fall into them, longingly wishing to tell you,
how much I adore you.
That I, am in awe of your unconcious beauty,
perplexed by your layered originality.
Like a poet with a new novel, I so desperately desire to read farther into you,
yet be gentle as if I am handling a hundred
year old book.

But I, I am no one.
Not a complete, not a singular.
I am merely stiched from pieces of others,
a poor art collage of a human.
Hopelessly, I cannot possibly aim to be even half of what you are,
or that,
which you surely will become.
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