the shadow in the trees

Our past had a brighter future
Than my present.

I should have preserved
Your embrace in the scrapbooks.
More than tender memories
Would flow from each page.

 

stranger things have happened, and stranger emotions have been felt. i am a stranger to myself now, but i promised you i’ll be fine the day i left, and the only thing keeping me sane is knowing that you loved me just as much as i loved you.

‘had i stayed’ is a pool of endless possibilities. scenarios that haunt me with their imaginary perfection. you are beautiful in my head, and will remain beautiful forever – the memory boy i loved. 

i loved you, and i lost you fairly, to no one but myself, and i couldn’t have loved you better. that’s all for now. no more regrets. no more tempered madness behind this glass window of self-perpetuated hatred. i am rebuilding the lies of myself because underneath this hurt is a buried reservoir of strength.

my dreams are haunting, as are the memories, and they come in the dead of night, when the silence is all consuming. i remember trading whispers with you as your fingers paint sigils into my skin, yet, on the flip side, i remember also the throbbing, burning hurt as i sobbed into my pillows, clutching the downy comfort against my chest, mind desperately trying to reform your body. 

it’s interesting, isn’t it? that the person you would take a bullet for is so often the very person firing the gun.

i’m terrified that one day, you will be nothing more than the ghost of a memory. an imagined fragrance. the weight of you nothing more than a figment of a made-up past. i’m scared you’ll haunt me, i’m scared you’re already haunting me, and then i realize all too terribly that you aren’t the apparition i’m afraid of.

it is not your memory that torments me.
so often, we become doppelgängers of ourselves without even realizing it. 

it is a bittersweet realization that gnaws on my insides, chewing away the wall of emotions that i’ve built up, so that my bones crumble and my muscles degenerate, and all that pervades is a throbbing empty; a cloying, decaying empty that crucifies. 

 

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