Little Things

And I remember the first time you left

the cottages buried deep in the evergreen hills 

 

but I can’t remember your face or 

voice, just those pale crystal eyes. 

 

Sometimes I find your letters between the cracks 

of my bed where our bodies would intertwine 

 

in lonely thoughts of what living past 31 

would be like, only for you to remind me that we

 

were only made to live;

and only born to die.

 

I’m being careful after I gave myself away that night.

You’ll forever have a piece of me while I forget every piece of you. 

 

I tried to say your name so I wouldn’t forget the little things 

but in truth, it will never stay. I’m forgetting all of it. Even you.

 

So tell me what it means to live a meaningful life

when this life was never mine to begin with.

 

Tell me what it means to love,

to bleed out as death do us part

 

was never an option for people

like us. For impossibles like you and me.

 

I’m sorry. Or at least I want to be.

I would say don’t feel bad 

 

but you aren’t here to listen.

You knew we weren’t meant to last. 

 

Even when you said

you’d never let me go…