Odd, though, isn’t it
How easy it is to say goodbye to the living
Than to say farewell to the dead.
Leave, go, you say to those seeking others’
Pastures. With no forgiveness, temporary
Or otherwise to mitigate the pain
That flushes in and out of your face at
Memories that flood of betrayal, of those
Trusted moments that now rip your heart while
You pace and pace and try to draw your breath
For long enough to breathe; but it doesn’t even
Fill your lungs with enough to last
One short moment of time. And yet, how odd
That the one that really got away, to heaven
Perhaps, a good soul before he crashed
His way out of your life, leaving words so bitter
You will always wonder if his last thought was
Filled with hatred for your betrayal and if
His heart was ripped out by your words scattering
The sheets with your impeccable writing, those neat
Precise words indicting, accusing of what
He may have never done.
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