i'm tired of pretending i don't love
of being unable, inexplicably incapable of letting it all shatter
as if being strong is something i knew fondly of;
i have not been brought to this earth by the mosses and the lichens to tear apart my skin
to lie in a dark room next to those i do love
and pretend this is all just a coincidence and i wasn't invited in,
it's not a lie i'm living,
it's more like an alternate reality
because i see the wrong people coming and i sit next to them
and the time flies by and cries whilst in my hands
i can't remember the times where love seemed a viable foundation
now it's all i can dream of
of a silent home
a transgression of this self-imposed solitude; a miracle
where someone or something reaches through
and sees the softness deep within
which has been growing
while missing
while loving
while forgetting.