Whenever I write about you, beautiful words appear on paper.
Perhaps it's because every single thing that my pen pulses out
contains the image of your face, of your glowing confidence and gentle smile.
And I guess it's kind of sad,
How I insist I can't even remember your ******* smile
(and the way your **** eyes lit like newborn nebulas)
and how I don't care much about how you're doing
(are you still with her? You probably are.)
But the worst part isn't how much I'm bullshitting everyone around me, how so not 'okay' I am, or how many times the words i'm fine, just tired made their way out of my mouth.
The worst part isn't that you're not here to hold me through this pangs of depression, hitting me like waves hit the seashore,
It's not the fact that I'm not your 3am drunk phone call or your ''good morning'' text, not even your arm of support (was I ever?)
It's not the thoughts eating me alive every night (don't worry, these aren't your fault; they've been my dark companions for years), nor how I can't ever forget you, not even with pills or alcohol or cheap smokes.
The worst is the realisation that you're like a spring fragrance and I'm just another ****.
You're the summer breeze and I'm nothing but a grain of sand under your feet.
It's the knowledge that even through all of this, I knew;
I always knew that I'd never be worthy of you.
I never have.
I never will.
