Forget Me Not

1

There are no exact ways or words on how I could put some paint on your empty canvas these days, when my stroke also stutters. But how would I know if you are watering your grave from the minute sentiments you're holding into if I won't? If I won't do this now, when? When will I be able to go the extra mile just to sit with you?

Far from the slaughter of this world, I  wanted to  learn and embrace that your scars weren't aching and living with you just because it's tampered with your soul, but because they made you so so gentle. Gentle enough that it holds your vulnerability from disturbing someone else's charity.

Please, I don't want to stand in your grave bawling my heart out, for my eyes couldn't speak the chatter my thoughts wanted to evoke. I don't want to stand in your grave swallowing my eulogy because I hate to spit the truth that it also kills me seeing you go through that in full force of quietness.

I don't want to stand before your grave without doing nothing when I have the opportunity— if only you did let me know that it was killing you, perhaps, I did willingly make a bonfire for you and share a toss of your injuries to love, to laugh, and to live  by.

You should have told me that you wanted to be selfish. I could have been there offering my rest for you. I would have not died everyday.