collection

the art of letting go

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I  once shared,
  some could say that we still share them,
  it would be difficult for me to disagree.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
   your life hangs in the balance,
   tipping ever so slightly into the unknown.
We share the same name
    and although I have tried in vain to change mine,
     it still sticks,
     lingering on old tongues,
     leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  you sit, waiting for whatever will come next,
  you watch me with curious eyes, as if i know the answer to your questions,
and it pains me to tell you that I do not.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  we are a magnificent circus duo,
   I, the ventriloquist and you my mindless drone,
  or you the ventriloquist and I, all alone.
  Our audience laugh at our shared torment and
  I, I laugh as well at the situation we have created.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  and though we share the same name,
  the same face,
  I fear we are no longer the same.
You are a reflection of what used to be,
  of what is now forgotten
   and fading away,
   as though you never existed in the first place.

And, I , I am the aftermath,
  The desolation after an explosion,
  I am the one who was left behind to pick up the pieces.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I hold you close to my heart,
close enough that the pounding of my being deafens you,
and the shaking of my rib cage engulfs you.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
I tell myself that it is to protect you ,
but in reality I know that I am crushing you.

I hold you in the palm of my hand,
  your eyes are hollowed out craters.
In the holes of which, buried deep, are the memories that you and I  once shared.
But now you are gone and yet I still remain.
Those memories intact but not looking the same.