She was a forest.
When fire did come, she did dance.
The beauty of death.

382 days and counting
Since I've last seen you
Not a day has gone by since then
That I don't incredibly miss you
Hardly a single breath of fresh air has been
Inhaled without even the slightest hint of you
And all I seem to do is drink more without you

382 days checked off the calendar but I still keep waiting
Anticipating for the morning I wake up when I'm no longer waiting
Waiting to let go or the day I stop wasting
Wasting these days away, erasing the images I keep repainting
Beautiful mural images all over my mind and I can't  stop retracing
Remembering all of our bitter night endings
are better than this empty bed that I'm facing

382 days have passed and I'm trying to let go
Clenching my fists toward my stomach and taking a blow
Pulling my hair out from the roots just to watch it regrow
Smiling in front of the world and screaming into my pillow
Going crazy and wishing I could go back to 382 days ago.

People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3 am is the equivalent of being heartbroken.

But sometimes
it's 9 am on a Wednesday morning
and you're standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the coffee to brew

And the smell of dusty sunlight and Columbia roast makes you miss them so much
you don't know what to do with your hands.