There's this box and it just sits on the top shelf of my closet. Maybe it serves as a reminder of how you killed me. Every time I open the door, I see the colors, they catch my eye. And, every now and again, I take it down off my shelf.
There's pictures of us and things we'd one shared. Memories folded and tucked away neatly into the corners. Going through it one night, the phone rang. Should I answer it? Would I dare to be so bold?
You missed me. Your voice on the other end of the phone sounded like it was beckoning to come home. You left months ago, disappeared without a trace. Never again would you show your face. But you did. You ended up in my doorway at three a.m. and all I could do was stare at you.
We spent the weekend laughing over drinks. Talking about things that wouldn't matter. And then.. You were gone again.
The years have passed and I'm older now. I haven't opened the box in months. You disappeared like you always do, your famous last act.
Maybe you loved me. Maybe you truly did. But, you killed me. And, after a while, corpses begin to smell. Maybe you didn't mean to but you left me to die. You left me cold, alone and wondering why.
YOU ARE READING
Learning to Breathe
PoetryJust a book of poems and midnight thoughts turned unto words. The dark ramblings of my mind. Including a Neverland series! pictures aren't mine unless noted
