They Tell Me You’re Gone.

I remember the loneliness in your company and the painful splinters of your lies. Like a bursting dam, flooding our path, we were let loose and you were no longer my anchor. And when words fell short of filling the tear we so effortlessly kept pulling at, we were left with nothing but a world of distance. And the day came, where not even your footprints were left.

The threads have already been pulled out and we, no longer sewn together.

They tell me the bar down the street closed down last month. The one we knew so well; our Wednesday night routine. The one you’d take me to, to get me drunk and running away at the mouth. You hated the fact I only talked to you when I was drunk, the only time I’d ever open up. But you had no problem stepping into my head when it did happen.

I never learned the concept of staying put. Or the difference between needing to leave and just wanting to run. My life, now stuck on pause, frozen in a standstill as I live in these memories. I bought front row seats to my own self-destruction. And in the time it takes me to actually grow up, and let go of the past I don’t even want to remember, everyone will be gone. Closed off, like an old, abandoned bar. Just a distant memory.

They say you found a new girl. One that can make you smile again. I guess you can’t tie your boat to a sinking ship. That’s just absurd. And so, you found a new girl. I guess it was only a matter of time until I faded.

They say you moved on nicely, like I was a poorly written verse in a song no longer played. I’m here in this moment, married to the memory of you. Married to the constant reminders that surface like drifting wood, that I will never be enough. Your eye, always on the door and mine on the past.

They say my old house is gone; just a bare, plot of land now. The old, creaky one we used to lie in, together. Talking of nothing of importance or significant to anything but ourselves but soaking into each other.

They say it’s all different now. Things torn down, things built up. But I didn’t need them to tell me that. I knew, all along. I, the sunrise, for someone looking for a sunset.


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