I hear their words:
You're not alone in this.
Then I watch them turn away.
What can they say?
How can they be?
My loved ones pull away. As if I'll pull them into death's grip.
Even strangers can feel the pull of my grief, the trees themselves keep their distance.
But I need them. I can't breathe without the trees. I'm losing connection.
Arrested by an overwhelming pain; a weight I can't carry alone.
My screams turn into silence. Too much time has passed.
Walk on the other side of the street.
Tell me just to go to sleep.
But I cannot sleep, I think and think.
And when the weight gets too heavy..
I want to drink.
YOUR ABSENCE takes up so much space.
In the small details, of everyday. When I looked this way, you looked that. The door isn't cracked the right amount, the room is too cold. No one is drinking all the milk.
The jokes only you could understand, the stories we told without words. No one call fill the void.
Our final conversations are blurring in my head, the images are less clear. Your smell is fading.
When I'm high I feel closest to you.
I crave a pain that's less foreign, a pain I can watch heal. With glass shards in my arm and bruises on my cheek. Those scars fade with time.
This one seems to be getting deeper.
Chaos was our home. And this.. this is the worst type of homelessness.
The grief was almost easier before. The same amount of heavy, but I had more hands. The further I walk, the more people let go. They have other loads to carry.
And my arms have never felt so tired.
Is this the worst part?
Because I'm in it right now? Because I know I'll be here forever?
The door is closed. You're never coming home, and neither am I. Home isn't home without you.
I don't know how to open the lock, when you have the key.
And I can't drop you, without dropping myself.