There is nothing I can say, safely. there are changes and motions and stillness that have left me naked and stripped to my bare organs; the heart being the evident one. what can I do now with this? dress myself up? keep all hope down? there is no home yet. no place, no heartbeat, no whisper. I have buried this many times, it resurfaces as if it was a gore tale. It comes out, almost shining its light to face my own little darkness. I hate that I love. yet I live because of it. I re-member, and arrange and continue, awake, barely. trying to weigh my feet down I find myself, after all these years. No more an angel I wish to be; but I still wonder, I still look at the sky. You know? I still write, how ironic. I still am who I was, but less. much less. and with it I have not become more. I use the word I still. (is it even considered a word?) I battle my thoughts with your logic. I silence my own naive narrative, because, well, who knows why I am even allowing it. I question my intention every step of every way, even though I have no way. Lost as it were, moving slowly, in rhythm with the desire of not wanting more distance. I died. I did die. Just like love I still try to resurface. Every so often I smile. bot not for long. not an adult smile. because there is no real reason to. not with a broken heart. a heart that should be empty by now. but it is full, of you. And I carry that weight, that life that never happened. That night, that day, that phrase, that word, that whisper, that imagined touch, I re-live it to live. I have yet to get sick of it. at least as much as it got sick of me.