too lighti'm starting to lose parts of youfading in the sun and leaving datesburnt out and i can't recallthe day you leftbut i know the shoes i was wearingthey are heavy as hell nowand i tossed them in a boxunder the bednever taken them out sincethey must be filled with griefor sadnesssomething i can't seebut oh god i can feel its weight.it was a nice day tooi use the term -was- because you ruined itthe sun was warming and thebirds seemed happytweeting away to themselvesi don't see how that could have beenthe day you decided to do ithow could it have made youtip over the edgei will never understand that as long as i livewhat went through your headif anythingthe flashbacks were the worsti was catapulted back yearsto school yard with your hairand your guitar clutched against your chestyou held that thing like i so desperatelywanted you to hold meclose to you and with a gentle strengththat looked so safeare your eyes still the same colouras the leaves on the gumtr
shallow breath, aching bones.this feeling is too big for me.too giant for my small frame to containand its spreading and spilling out andover my insides and leaving me wakingup with bruises from dreams so realthey hurt.this feeling is too much for me.i can't carry it all, it leave part of itdragging alongthe ground behindme and i tend to forget its thereand i trip over it and fall to ground.i decided to collect bruisesbut i dont have to look to farthey tend to seek me outand scatter themselves across my skin.
apparitionits the things that aren't really there that stick in your throat the most.he had a knack for leaving me for periods at a time, usually in the middleof the night around when morning wasn't to be seen for miles. i'd wakeup with the bed empty and my voice gone and people asking me thingslike, "how long were you together?" as if they hadn't ever known he wasthere with me that whole time.his name was taboo for years. i never even had the courage to managethe first consonant of him until three years ago; it was slippery as it fellout of my mouth, almost tugging the whole thing with it. i'd cut it shortjust after the "w" and left those who were listening in confusion."what did you say there?"they'd ask.i was never one to talk of things that i wasn't sureexisted, like god or heaven or him.all of his things were gone themorning after he would leave, the house and myself gutted of hisexistence. who was i to say that he was really there at one point?"oh, just a stutter," i'd tell