Wonder how someone you once believed in so strongly suddenly feels more like a ghost story than a prayer.
A haunted house more than a home.
A person more than a savior.
Visiting their memory became part of your routine.
And just like a cigarette, theyre a hell of a vice to break.
You dont, you dont, you dont.
Because you know better now.
Understand its for the best.
Still crave the worst every now and then anyway.
give a shot to recall what you saw in them.
But save the text thread and photos, at least for now.
Watch their birthday pass and dont say a word.
Finally delete your string of messages.
Still keep the photos.
Attempt to resurrect the butterflies but realize theyre already long departed.
erase the cobwebs off your heartstrings but notice the melody no longer sounds the same.
Dig and dig and dig into that grave of what-once-was until your hands become raw.
When you get to the bottom, find nothing at all.
Consider this to be your answer.
