The sun rises eastward, as always.
It sets after its bold curve of the sky, burying itself under the West horizon, painting pink streaks through the clouds.
If I were to leave, if I were to vanish, the sun would still illuminate your smile on summer days, and leave you in romantic darkness on autumn evenings.
If I stopped existing, your life would cease to change.
I would remove my petty mind and heartbroken hands from your body, you would feel no pain from my removal, just a sigh as a heavy weight falls from your shoulders.
If I moved away in the future, if I left to achieve my dreams, you would forget me, soon enough.
A call once a week becomes a text once a year, as I celebrate with people who could never replace you.
So why is it so different if I simply go now?
If I fell from grace again, if my name meant sin in your mouth, I am sure you would be glad to see me out.
Your name breeds happiness to all who know it’s power.
Why would you want to be ruined by association?
When I stop existing, a tear may be shed.
In ten years my only memory will be a stone slab in a field.
A statistic to be sad about, but no real human lies beneath.
When I stop existing, the sun will still rise in the east, it will still set in the West.
Why should I stay when no one wants me around?
