When people leave, they actually don't leave your soul.
You’re my bones. And I have no flesh above bones.
I have no blood.
No veins. Just bones.
My skeleton is just so ugly.
But it is all made of you. Of your being.
And I can’t even stare at a mirror without being stared back by your eyes.
But, now, right now, I don’t even have to explain to you why I have nothing but bones.
I don’t have to really tell you how the cigarettes blackened my lungs.
I don’t have to explain to you how I didn’t want to eat anymore.
And furthermore my stomach tore apart.
I don’t need to tell you how I spilled my blood out by crying.
I shouldn’t even explain to you how my skin was destroyed with pointless scars.
My ears were deafened by the same gothic songs I heard since your absence. But you don’t have to know that.
You don’t even have to know how I was blinded by the absence of your image.
I lost the sense of smelling. I didn’t smell your perfume anymore.
Or the dry black rose I always kept.
This moment just came. As expected.
And I was empty. I had nothing, but bones.
You’re still in my bones.