I thought the sky was clear once more,
That I am healed from a bleeding sore
But it seems like each “okay” is a heavy sigh,
A sharpening blade, an inner lie

sitting in their room:
somebody's looking at a bunch of pills.
staring at a stack of razors.
holding a thick belt in their hand.
or just thinking, contemplating to end it all.
but then suddenly, they think of you.
your smile.
the dimple on your cheek that appears when you smile.
oh god, that beautiful smile.
your touch.
the feeling they get when your soft yet strong hands caress ex their body.
feeling like they're floating, reliving that moment.
your voice.
that sweet voice that asks, "how are you today?" & says "i love you" & "i'm sorry" when they wrong you.
that sweet, sweet voice.
sweet enough to calm monster within.
your hair.
the way it feels. how it curls up when it's wet after you take a swim.
how you hate it when they touch your hair.
your love.
the way you're willing to understand them.
even though you don't, you are willing.
someone, somewhere, could throw those pills away,
throw those razors away,
choose to adorn that thick belt on their waist instead of on their neck,
& choose to hold on.
all because they thought of you.

— @beeyroyce.

I’ve reached the point where I start
to make sense of things. I think.

I’m trying hard at my desk
this dull June day
with its pencil-grey sky
promising rain.

But I know in the fields
the whitest wild campion
has come into flower.
And the vase that used to stand
on the bedroom mantlepiece
dropping jasmined petals
into your shoes is now filled
afresh by your careful hand.

Oh to be better at where I am
rather than where I might be.
And to think beautifully,
each and every moments’ minute.