Tell me this is not the end
That you simply just forget
To ask me how I'm doing
When I'm lonely once again

I am losing faith at best
In the promise that we're friends
I still see no interaction
From the words we haven't said

There's still no standing argument
To suggest it's in my head
I cannot be the only one
Who's concerned the other's dead
(Right....?)

But if there's nothing left to say
Then I suppose I need to rest
Silence can often speak volumes
When you're laying on your bed

So teach me how to handle it
And rest assured I'll try my best
Maybe I can finally get ahead of this
Cause I could really use a reset

To be okay when I'm by myself
And start this once again
To know when i should stop and reflect
To be thankful for all you've been
To me....

Take with you my spirit.
I brought it with me when I visited;
Tasting of apples, smelling of cheap perfume:
Happy to see you.

With no key, no schedule,
I was the Prince, you were Repunzel:
Smiling at me out your window.
Your arms were my favourite place in the world.

Take with you the picture
Of my sad eyes: heavy and puffed.
Holding my own hand.
Happy that I now could.

I made my choices, lost my way.
You learned more about me then.
Frown lines cracked my porcelain face.
Your presence offered me solace.

Take with you my love;
It stayed around all these years.
Missing your hands, searching for your eyes.
Happy to have met them.

Time took with it the motions.
Though, inside me we both stand still.
I catch glimpses of your arms, and your delight,
But you are no longer in the crowd.

11.29.23 I'll start the story and then never finish it because there will always be more to write. There will always be more to our story. Or so I hope.




2.2.24 I started the story and never finished because missing you cuts too deep to write of our missed adventures. There are no more words left to our story.




Because it's not our story anymore.




-t.s.

I always thought relationships ended with anger,
but you know they say the opposite of love is apathy.

Like the death you confront after your fall from religion,
there is no fear, nostalgia, or sadness - just a void.

To not be thought of is to be dead.

I'll become like that pesty buzzing in your ear
that reminds you every now and then there's a fly in your house.

I'll ask if you remember those times together,
and you'll look past me like a foreign stranger asking directions.

You won't even need to say goodbye because you said it a hundred times to yourself.
When you finally say it me, you'll be hanging up the phone, but I'll be crumbling under all the weight of what was left to be said.