Sometimes
I still think back to that summer
When I met you.
I had promised I wouldn't do anything stupid like
Tell you all my secrets.
I can't say I'm truthful.
Nor can I call it lying.
I call it painting
A very harsh,
A very real,
A very hurt
Picture of myself.
Truth is,
You don't know all my secrets or,
All the faults that lie beneath this tattered skin.
I'm glad.
I've had this fear.
A fear of forgetting.
A fear you'll forget me
And as slowly as this heartache subsides to a winter whisper,
I realise it's you letting go
Just as I am letting you go.
Sometimes, I think back to
Two years ago,
When a simple compliment
could make you feel so much.
But what would you know
Of a song of a dead man crying.
