It’s so strange
to think that you still exist
outside my memory
and that you breathe air
my skin will never touch.
Your lips form words
my ears will never hear.
There is a tapestry of moments
still being woven into your life
that we will never speak of,
even though, late at night,
I sometimes miss the sound of your voice.
I am on the edge of my own sanity—
still debating whether you were right.
Your words haunt me still.
And I am not fearless as I always wished to be.
I am terrified,
of all the things I could be.
So it’s strange to think that you still exist.
That you are still a reality—
and not a figment of my insecurities,
born to ruin me.
You walk on this earth,
smile and laugh,
maybe you cry—I don’t remember ever seeing you cry.
I thought I had shed all my tears for you.
But every so often my heart races,
my blood rushes,
my lungs sigh,
and a solitary tear wells up in my eye.
I still feel all the pieces that I was,
shattered on the floor,
when you finally broke me.
I’ve memorized the curves
of unseen scars
from all the battles that we fought.
They never open,
but those caverns still shake with your echoes
like a silent quake of regret
and I find myself resigned
to never forgetting what was lost.
It is so much safer
to keep you in my memories—
where no more damage can be done.
But to actualize you again,
to feel your presence,
would be devastating.