Loss is a funny thing when the person you mourne is still breathing,

We don’t talk about it enough I think,

Those people who decide for whatever reason, you don’t fit into their idea of life anymore.

And they cling, selfishly to the roof of your mouth, and the skin of your palms taking up space because they were loved, they were loved and the only thing left to consider is you.

The faults you carry just as surely as the beating heart in your chest- what was worse than the love you shared?

The crooked teeth, or grass-stained jeans? Your too loud laugh, or too big dreams? The fact you can’t find comfort in a room full of people, the knowledge that you like it better when it’s just you two? 

What was it that cracked the foundations of this friendship, camaraderie, and sisterhood?

And I think if I saw her again she wouldn’t understand,

Those years of bitter withdrawal, with those questions. 

Question after question caught on my tongue,

A hot brand of distrust and self-consciousness in my propriety.

Did you not love me? Did you not hold those summer’s in the yard with the same tenderness I did? Or was it simply not enough? The shared smiles and laughter, sundaes and birthday parties? Trips to the zoo with painted and oily faces. 

They cling so consciously to my memories, and yet- they weren’t enough? The love I kept around my neck with a locket and your face? That innocent unabashed fondness I had for you? 

And at the end of the day, I just want to ask-

Was it really all meaningless? 

Was I?

Was I?

WAS I?