It’s like a splitting sensation.
Like a thousand screws are twisting
within you.
He went quick and painfully.
And although he didn’t suffer
much it still brings me no comfort that he’s gone.
left,
away,
"In heaven."
F—k that.
He’s gone and I can’t fix it.
He died. No one to hold him.
No one to pray with him to the god he so loved.
No one to call his wife, no one to call his kids,
No one to do anything for a man
terrified.
F—k that.
Don’t tell me it’ll get better.
Don’t tell me it’ll get easier.
Don’t tell me he lives a good life
or believed in the lord in heaven.
Don’t tell me he’s happy now
He’s was happy then.
So let me cry my memories out
until he raises again.
He’s in a box, on display,
like tissues in a kindergarden classroom.
F—k that.
Let me cry. Let me live. Let me eat
until I ache. Let me yell and punch and scream
about how I loved him and how he’s
never coming back.
We’re all disposable, like those tissues I suppose.
But that doesn’t help.
It never does.
So leave me alone
stop talking to me
and let me get over him.
Sonder: n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
Anemoia: Nostalgia For A Time You've Never Known.
