Easier to pretend that you’re dead
Than to accept you’re just gone,
That you walked away
From everything you said you wanted;
Walked away from the life
Weak hands fought hard to build
Easier to hate her,
Than to see my place in your leaving,
And the distance that had long been there,
The silence that had long filled,
The nights once owned by passion
Filled with lust
Easier to blame you for hurt feelings,
And the thunder of tears
That stream from tired eyes;
Than admit that it doesn’t
Really hurt like it should;
Like heartbreak should
©2014 – V. A. Coote