i've been feeling so hollow since you left
as if one wrong touch, just one, will make my body crumble in on itself
each day passes by without a thought
such a well oiled machine
i feel as though within seconds i'll be 80 years old, alone, and withered to the point of no return
like that flower
i keep writing about you.
i know i shouldn't, but it's something i can't help
it feels as though reality is shoving a fistful of truth down my throat and it won't seem to stop
not until I'm choking on my own saliva and it seems as though my stomach has dropped
i'm usually good with words
i don't mean to write about you so much,but every time i do, it's never enough
something's never right
something's always missing
maybe I used the wrong synonym
or it came across in some awful way
there just aren't enough words to describe what you made me feel.
what I'm still feeling.
and you always wanted to be the subject of my poetic tangents anyway.
