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The Death of You
Losing you was like
living through your death.
Seeing you wither over time,
then suddenly:
gone.
Afterwards you haunted me,
and sometimes I could've sworn,
no, really,
that I heard you,
that these flowers were from you--
but I never caught a glimpse of you,
so I began to doubt
if you still existed.
I continue to love you
despite the way you treated me near the end,
just the way people continue
to love someone who died
despite the pain inflicted
all because that person is permanently gone,
and people would rather remember
the good, the funny, the sweet
instead of reality
because if they do,
if I do,
they remember just how truly gone
the deceased are,
and facing that truth
along with the weight of a genuine love
would be too much to bear,
too much.
It's been a half a year since
you suicided your life out of mine,
and I remember it often,
even though recalling you in mind
is pointless,
just as talking to you in my imagination
is meaningless.
I constantly wonder how you're doing,
how your life has changed,
what you'd say to me if you were here,
whta you'd do if you knew--
dear God, darling,
if only you knew
how much I've missed you,
how much I've thought about you,
how many of these poems are about you,
how much I love you,
and how much I still can't forget you,
but you won't ever know,
will you?
Because I let you erase yourself
out of my story,
killing you off before
I truly got to see you develop
as I grew on my own journey,
and you left me to undergo
the stages of grief alone
while I mourned the death of you
and our unfortunate young love.
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