This week I punched a wall until I bled,
It was made of stones, and bricks, and memories of you.
And it felt, for a moment, like I could feel you beside me again.
Like maybe if I hit it hard enough, your hand would be holding mine again.
My mouth tasted like a bottle of rum I shouldn’t have picked up.
Like a bitter reminder that if we’d held on a little longer we may have made it.
And my ears rang from the sound of the last words you said to me,
And I missed you.
And I missed what we were,
And more importantly everything we never got the chance to be.
This week I punched a brick wall until I bled,
And somehow it still hurt less than leaving you.
k.a.










