Healing

I suppose I'm coming around.

I can't picture your face easily anymore.

Can't quite recall the tone of your voice, the exact sound.

I can't recall the exact shade of green your eyes, or black at their core.

Your height is probably taller.

Your shoulders are probably broader,

you've probably grown. Older.

It hurts just a little bit, it's getting a little bolder.

Being hungry helps out, helps me miss-interpret my pain.

But don't worry, I still eat, just not as much.

I cry out in the rain.

Mostly because it hides my tears and such.

But I think I'm finally getting over it.

Putting myself together stitch by stitch.

And no matter how hard it hurts, I won't quit.

In tears and sobs, I am rich.

But also, what if I'm not healing?

What if I keep myself hurting?

What if I don't forget, refuse to, and keep remembering.

Could I then have you, if I kept hurting, crying, begging? Stabbing?

Healing is fickle, I want to heal, but I don't. I suppose the pain reminds me of you,

you who I don't want to forget.