I’ve always said that it’s like you don’t exist.
That since everything ended I had freed my mind.
I could bask in the sun finally content.
Content with how it all ended.
Content with how little you seemed to care,
and how easy it was for you to pretend I didn’t exist.
I should be content doing exactly what you did.

But I’m not.

I’ve always said that it’s like you don’t exist,
but that’s a lie I’ve been forcing into my mind.
An attempt to cover the scarlet vines
which sink their thorns of misery into my body
each and every time I lay my eyes your way.
Each time I get comfortable in their grasp
they prick me deeper with the reminders of pain.
The pain of knowing you don’t care.
The pain of knowing it’s over.
The pain of knowing I don’t exist to you.
I wish I could do what you did and forget.

But I can’t.

I’ve been trying to act like you don’t exist,
but unlike you I can’t forget.
There is still a dying light inside of me
that fights to see you return some day.
A light that survives despite my best attempts
because I never wanted it to end.
Because I still care
and I can’t act like you don’t exist.
I wish I could just extinguish this petty flame of hope
tear myself from these horrid vines
and finally be free from your rotten grasp.

But I can’t.


© Robert Taylor