Is sorrow defined
by the absence of something you love
or the echoes of what you once held dear?

Or is it defined by the lack of warmth once felt,
the only remnant now, the shadows you learned to fear?

Perhaps it is neither.
Or perhaps, it is both.

All I know, and have known,
is that sorrow is what you feel after letting something go.

Time heals, they say,
but have you ever noticed
how every word you breathe is a sharp, unrelenting sting?

How you choose to speak them anyway,
no matter the agony they bring?

Have you ever noticed
the way I pick at every bruised scab
on the depths of my frayed heart,
that I once allowed you to hold?

Maybe it was my fault,
how I needed you to stay,
even though all my efforts
were nothing but in vain.

And as the blue-painted skies
slowly start to turn grey,
I still can’t find it in me
to look at you with disdain.

Although you might prefer to give up
on everything and leave
than watch wet paint dry;
I’m the one who's left to grieve,
over every truth and lie.

If the stars above could paint the vast, vivid realm
That seeks shelter in your eyes,

Would it be fair to decline?

Or perhaps, it was always meant for us
To wave goodbye at the end of time.

We are the things we so desperately desire be kept concealed:

the unsightly sensation of blood
painting our stained hands,

the sheer amount of hopelessness coursing inevitably
though the warren of our lifeless soul.

we are, what we are not.

I gaze as the Sun retreats to its hollow cavern of darkness,
The stars a faint reminder of the vast emptiness that lies beyond.

A dove flew across my view,
And a daffodil gently landed on the windowpane.

Yet, it wasn't long before I realized that the Sun had set before it even rose.

Like a candle,
The reflection of our shattered, but beating heart continues to grow Dimmer
As the passage of time goes on;
Kindled by our growing sorrow and the want to be ignited yet again for one final time,
The hours fleeting by as flowers wilt
And the ever-lasting rain ceases.