But it was and that was decades ago and now you're bones in a box and I'm bones on a couch with a bowl in my hand smoking my pride to cinders until the last bits of me that you touched are crematorium ash.
I used to speak your name in thousands of empty rooms hoping you'd hear and say something back but your words ended on a gravel country road and now I know why they call it a dead end
1.18 p.m
Using the notebook you gave me for Christmas to pen you letters I'll never send about how life has been so far without you
And mailing it to your old address after I've reached the end - for the old you to find and read
i love people who have so much soul in them. those who always look at the skies, who feel alone in a crowd & feel at peace beside a tree. those who see themselves as one with the ocean. the ones who asked themselves if they've gone a little mad. those are my kind of people.
My writing is no longer haunted by the ghost of him anymore. In meeting him today again for the 1st time after ages, they got exorcised and all the unfinished memories have been finished