I miss how the trees are in the summertime
I miss saying your name
It feels like this winter has lasted longer than its time
you wrote about it always
towards the end...
almost like you knew everything I wasnt ready for
natures son..
You kept the atmosphere in your chest
and
when it rained, you rained like
every time you closed your eyes on those long nights when you caught sleep with your hands
You'd tuck it under your pillow,until it hissed to you your:
fears
oh (the things you sat alone with)
churning them into nightmares, you'd wake again
writing about winter
red eyes, sipping tea
melting the veins you crystallized
staring out the window
if only I had listened
to what the world was really saying..
what you always said
beneath your words
and now, consequently, everything feels dead
the only sounds
echoed whispers that hold your sunken melody
whispers...
mistaken dor the lonely mumbles of an old house
or
a baying dog in the distance
lost
all these embody the void that you have become...
the quiet that separated
us back into individuals
[your nothing but an empty space
in a room I no longer recognize [..
You are the sound
vibration
(the vibration after sound)
that curls itself inside my hand
the hunger in my stomach squelching protest to all the things
we can not see
While,
I was the pale light that fell on the face of a widow
too scared to
tongue the syllable of your name
While,
I am as grey as winter
dead
in the way that you have become
