i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

in an unrelenting bashing of emotion and rationale and a desire to run and run and run.

it is painful,

to see you,

at your best,

at a distance,

as a stranger at least

and a friend at most.

it is painful,

to hear about you,

in a secondhand manner,

in a controlled sense of curiosity,

in a breathless, assumed carelessness.

it is painful

to let you go.

more than i ever imagined it would be.

like rubbing sandpaper against

the palm of my hand which knows yours so well,

to erase the curvature of your hand,

the indents of your fingers,

and the love lines we believed were intertwined.

my inability to scrub your presence from my heart

is frustrated only by my inability to love you again.

it is over this i know,

i will not turn back,

but oh i am looking over my shoulder,

all

the

time.

i cannot do otherwise.

and you haunt the empty hallways of my heart.

so i won't let anybody move in

until you have left.

until all that remains are lingering traces of you,

like a forgotten shoelace,

or a coffee cup imprint,

allow me to keep those.

the next inhabitant will love me despite these souvenirs,

because he knows that's all they are.

i don't believe in stagnation,

i defy unhappiness every day.

i remain joyful despite these tired eyes,

i take these trials and steady my uneven steps,

see it's really quite simple.

it's about not letting sadness win.