Losing you was like

living through your death.

Seeing you wither over time,

then suddenly:

gone.

Afterwards you haunted me,

and sometimes I could've sworn,

no, really,

that I heard you,

that these flowers were from you--

but I never caught a glimpse of you,

so I began to doubt

if you still existed.

I continue to love you

despite the way you treated me near the end,

just the way people continue

to love someone who died

despite the pain inflicted

all because that person is permanently gone,

and people would rather remember

the good, the funny, the sweet

instead of reality

because if they do,

if I do,

they remember just how truly gone

the deceased are,

and facing that truth

along with the weight of a genuine love

would be too much to bear,

too much.

It's been a half a year since

you suicided your life out of mine,

and I remember it often,

even though recalling you in mind

is pointless,

just as talking to you in my imagination

is meaningless.

I constantly wonder how you're doing,

how your life has changed,

what you'd say to me if you were here,

whta you'd do if you knew--

dear God, darling,

if only you knew

how much I've missed you,

how much I've thought about you,

how many of these poems are about you,

how much I love you,

and how much I still can't forget you,

but you won't ever know,

will you?

Because I let you erase yourself

out of my story,

killing you off before

I truly got to see you develop

as I grew on my own journey,

and you left me to undergo

the stages of grief alone

while I mourned the death of you

and our unfortunate young love.