More or less a ghost now
sweetly haunting me,
killing me through contrast with corporeality,
in a vortex of associations
summoning memories,
just an agonizingly wonderful phantom,
an achingly beautiful apparition,
I tell myself,
though sometimes I swear
I could still touch you, hear you,
taste you, feel you
feeling me.
I had pushed you away.
You felt the pressure of my fingers
crushing your heart again
against the frigid air behind you,
so you turned your back on me
with a shoulder of ice
in the wake of a warm message
framed and hung in my mind.
Those three words,
you could say they are the horsemen
of my apocalypse.
Every fucking time.
So I've tried to pretend you're dead and gone
all while knowing the truth,
that I pushed you down
that I buried you alive.
Swear I can still hear you clawing at the casket
calling my name so delicately,
your whispers weaving into my dreams
in that melodious voice of yours.
The headstone that rests
at the head of that heap
of dirt always so fresh,
I feel as though it's crushing my chest.
When my mind is still, I can hear my heartbeat,
like soft hands rapping from deep inside.
I touch the stone, lay atop the loose soil,
and into the night I'm swallowed,
in thoughts of you I'm devoured.
And sometimes I swear I can still feel you,
crushingly.
Safe to say this is my life's tragedy.
Still, its better than not feeling
you there at all.
sweetly haunting me,
killing me through contrast with corporeality,
in a vortex of associations
summoning memories,
just an agonizingly wonderful phantom,
an achingly beautiful apparition,
I tell myself,
though sometimes I swear
I could still touch you, hear you,
taste you, feel you
feeling me.
I had pushed you away.
You felt the pressure of my fingers
crushing your heart again
against the frigid air behind you,
so you turned your back on me
with a shoulder of ice
in the wake of a warm message
framed and hung in my mind.
Those three words,
you could say they are the horsemen
of my apocalypse.
Every fucking time.
So I've tried to pretend you're dead and gone
all while knowing the truth,
that I pushed you down
that I buried you alive.
Swear I can still hear you clawing at the casket
calling my name so delicately,
your whispers weaving into my dreams
in that melodious voice of yours.
The headstone that rests
at the head of that heap
of dirt always so fresh,
I feel as though it's crushing my chest.
When my mind is still, I can hear my heartbeat,
like soft hands rapping from deep inside.
I touch the stone, lay atop the loose soil,
and into the night I'm swallowed,
in thoughts of you I'm devoured.
And sometimes I swear I can still feel you,
crushingly.
Safe to say this is my life's tragedy.
Still, its better than not feeling
you there at all.
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