Your picture fucking broke my soul

 
I sat on the balcony
legs between the bars,
sandals dangling
on the tips of my
toes, peeling the
label off bottle in my lap
a little weepy
because survival mode
kicked in
and it’s
numbing that fast.

You’re numbing that fast.

You have to.
You went that deep
and I can’t bleed out
on a balcony.

I hate that I’m so
good at not bleeding out.

I pick another strip off
the bottle, and I can’t
get the image of your
pain to leave;
the picture
of something
that was
dear to me
mangled,
sucked
all of the
air from the room.

and for a moment
I can still feel you.

For a moment,
I can still brush
my eyelashes against
yours so you
can share
my tears;
and run my
lips across your
knuckles
so I can feel
your hurt for you.

So I can share
the pain you
showed me
this time.

For a moment
those sweet
whispers in the
interlude
aren’t just
ghosts,
and
you aren’t
a chapter
in my past
haunting my
now.

I run my nails
along the glue
from the label
on the brown
bottle
and exhale.

For the moment,

I can’t remember
a time I had
a better reason
to cry.