Source: Tumblr

Even after all this time,
I still feel you on the base of my eyelids,
always right there waiting for me
when I close my eyes.

I think of you in black and white
and spit you out in poetry,
hands still searching for you
in every word,
every page.

And I keep putting pen on paper,
adding pages to ends of books,
almost convincing myself
that there’s still story left to write,
that there’s still songs to be sung
and paths to be paved,

points to be made
and meaning yet to be found
in the messes we made
of each other.

All of this
rather than admit that maybe
I wasted your time.

I hope one day
I’ll be able to look at you
without seeing ghosts.

I’ll stop making
fairy tales out of my fuck ups
and I’ll speak truth
instead of prose
and maybe one day admit
what I’ve always known,
that I’m the one
to blame.

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