It hurts to hold on
And yet I refuse to let go.

I don't want to restart,
learn a new favourite colour
or how he likes his coffee

I don't want to know
a new favourite film
or learn the name of his dog

I don't want another he, him or his.
I don't want to know anyone else.

I like knowing you like red
and black coffee.
You wake up early and struggle
to sleep.

I don't want to say anymore because those details
are for me.

Like you were,
for me.

Why can't you be for me?

I don't like ultimatums,
they're bitter and they stain
relationships

but if I chose to leave,
do I announce it?

If the reality of leaving really set in,
would anything change?

Would you apologise?
Would you care?
Would you look at me again?

Maybe we write to
make ourselves feel better

about the pain,
heartache
and every other
torturous infliction
that gnaws at our insides

Maybe we write to
survive the torture

because,
instead of screaming on the underground
or crying at dinner
we wait for the confines of paper
or thumbs to Notes.

Maybe we write
because we know
nothing else

isn't that ironic?

We know nothing.
Maybe that's why we write.

Sometimes it's difficult
To let something go
Someone

Sometimes it's difficult
To let something in
Someone

Sometimes the footprints
Are scars
Nails scratching at walls and blood smeared so
Deep

That letting go means
The end

Of me
And you.

I miss you
and it's breaking me.