i miss the important talks we used to have.digging into our soulsbut it doesn't mean i'm going to give up everything i'm doing to get that back from you.
does your heart feel lighter now that i'm not there?now that i'm walking away.i'm accepting that you are water slipping through my fingers and i just cannot hold onto you no matter how desperately i try to grasp onto you.i miss your true colors,but i'm still finding out more and more about you.sometimes you're a bright yellow, that shines as bright as the sun.some days, you're a dark black that's darker than the skies at 3 a.mand although i want to love each and every color you show to me,i just simply can not hold onto you any longer.i started to love you more than i was loving myself and it's tearing me apart.i still don't love myself like i love you,
i'll never understand how you said "we can't do this anymore" while still kissing my lips the next morning.-the next week is i guess when you really stuck to your words; and it ripped me apart.
if i had the chance to meet you again,would i do anything differently?would i tell you how i felt back then?would i still keep it to myself?would i'd rather have you break my heart three years ago, or somewhere in between then and now?
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.