Pieces of the Stars

Papercuts

It stings, like a papercut ...

... given by these words I am enticed to write
As do the enticer of which they speak; they ring with such influenceThe sound, so dreadful, it makes my ears bleed ...

Is it better, indeed, for lightning to strike you down

So that we are torn apart by forceIn the life given to us, most would disagreeThey think the cold wind of death akin to a nightmare.

Or ... is it more painful

For the gravity, the flames and sparks of life, to melt your glueSo that we have have strayed apart
Unable to bind the torn paper back together ...

I can hear you, but I can no longer feel your presence

You have disappeared, wander the world alone to this day ...No. It is only I, of course, that you have lost.And though a disdainful notion, in the least, I did believe ...

It's alright, though; indeed, you shall live on in my mind

Though it is only an illusion ... you are somewhere else, outsidePerhaps you have forgotten me, and I will be trappedIn this past, our past, to only repeat over and over, never ending?

Or perhaps, you do remember me?

At the most extreme, you recall me as I do youAnd I am granting you the same bittersweet painEven apart, I am no good, your pain, my tears ... pathetic.

I still see those days, live in them even

Though they were agonising, I am now left with greater agony and a bittersweet stingI was truly blinded by the light of the past, thinking only of myselfI blotted you out.

...

You have inspired me to write these words. In a way it is akin to a letter from you.Though painful, written on torn paper by bloody hands, rough edges, and riddled with papercutsThough stained with my tears, nostalgia, and miserable means of interpretationI must dare to utter the words ... thank you, my dear friend ...

(Life does not care if its objects become dirty, bloodstained ... life must go on, mercilessly, and without an end ... the cycle repeats.)