Talking to Myself by Keana Águila Labra

Why did you leave? Why didn’t you ask me for help? How can I stop swirling these words in my notebook, how can I halt the black that seeks to seep from closed off corridors? I made a promise never to share the truth that lay dead at the bottom of untouched trenches; I swore I would not know love nor love in the same way again. I swear I can’t do this anymore; I try to hold my chest; it pushes and pushes and pushes; I refuse to let it free, but I wish I could reach toward you and place a finger to your cheek. Why did you tie thread to neck; I always knew that your feet yearned to be free, but why, why did you leave?

But, he is gone.
He is not of this world.

But, the things worth
remembering, observing,

holding

are usually not.

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