If you were here

I’d confess that I think you’re the loneliest person I’ve ever met

and you’d be surprised

you’d look at me, with that smile that never reaches or leaves your face

“that’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me”

and I’d tell you “that’s because you have a tendency

of making others feel happy

and they mistake you for being the same”

its always the people who smile the brightest

who can hide the most pain

–

if you were here, sitting across from me

I could remember how it felt to laugh

together but the only space I remember

is the distance it takes to touch you

to feel your arms around me

your breath as I struggle to catch my own

I’ve been running with you for so long it feels like I’m

stuck moving away moving on

but how do you leave a person whose gone

but forever surrounding my head

clutching my thoughts with the strength I’d wanted

to use to hold onto you

–

if you were here

I would never feel the flower that grows between my lungs

when I realize that hesitation–and

the words I could never say right

so I never said them at all–are sometimes

the only reason we’re not the same

–

and if you were here

I wouldn’t have to sit surrounded by stones and cement

that never never understand, never respond

to the words

̶̧̡̧͍̩̣̝͍̬͉̞͖̳͇̱̠̗̞̰̠̱̩̣̗̝͙̬̹͙̺̞̞̘͉͎͕͔̮̺̜̄͜ ̸̧̡̡̠̻̯̼̬̭͍͇͖͔̳̽̐̍̄̓̿̽͐̊̎̉̾̆̎͒̆̆́́́͊̓̈́̃̊̊̃́͌͂̅̐̏̚͘̚̚͜͝Ǐ̷̧̡̳̟͈͈͍̩̥͚͇͓̼̥̪̗̪͓͖̼̼̻̳̪̖̱͇̪͉̙̦̖̃͂̈́̈̈́͊̿̔̂͗̊̾̃́͂̈͒̒̆̾̐͛̏́̋̎͜͝͝ͅͅ’̶̡̡̧̢̗͍͎̙̦̙̯̲̗̲͚̰͈̪̝̘͕̬̣͙͇͚͔̥̘̩̦̰̪̻͈̮̭̠̳̣̯̳͛̆́̽͗͆͂̎̾̈́́̓͂̑̿͛͊̒̊͛͌̈́̍̄̔̃͊̕̕̕̚͜͝͝m̸̧̢̨̢̨̨̤̺̯̤͍̳̦͖̙̺̺̖̐́̍͛̒̍͛͋̂̈̒̓̅̓͛̐̆̏̓͛̑͒͂̏̇̌́̈́̽́̈́͝ ̴̡̛̦̙̠͔̥̇̇̓̈́̐̓͆̑̎̃͛̈́̾̊̎́͐̾̉̎͛̒̍̉͑̽̄̓̓͠͠ ̷̨̢͔̱̳̱͚̮͙̮̥͙͎̠͙̳̫̗̩̫̳̬̮̺̞̯͕̪̐͐́̐͆͛̏͗͌͑̇͐̏̾̀̓͑̒̆̎̈́͐͒͗́̾̒͛̋̀̐̈́͋̄͗́́̀̈̀͒̊̒͘͝͠͠ͅs̵̨̛̟̝̘̘͈̩̬̣̞͉͙̤̺̟̤̞̦̜̯͍̱̙͓̜̫͍̟̩͖̺̟͙̘̗͍͎̠̙̩̞̱̀̐́͆̒̍̄̓̑̃̈́̾͊̅͋͒̍̀̌̄͋̍̃͆͌̂̓̾̉̅̌̉̕̕̚̕͠͠͠ơ̸̘͌̋́̽͒͂̇̔́͑̋̅͑̈́̈̅̋̑̂̄̀͌̈͛̐̔̆́̄͆͆́̈́͘̕͝͝r̸̨̡̛͓͍͕̹͚͙͚̟̫͕̪̦̭̞̟̹̭̬̬̲̖͈̭͖̲̳̟̥̟̍̿̾͛͗̐̽̎̐͛̒̆̓̐͋̈͐̿̊͘̕͝͠͠ͅṙ̴̢̡͍̜̯̞̣̼̻͇̮̩͉͇̖̦̰̘̥̝͕̣͕̱̬̘͍̪̣͜͜͜ỷ̵̨̡͖͓̞̹͇͚̗̫̣͕̰̦̞͍̺̜̜͎̤̻̥́̽̾͒̓̊̎̿̊̐̓͂̊̀̈͑̾̿̊͛̇̉̅̓̽͂̓̓̀́̑͛̂̕̕͘͘͜͝͠ͅ, ̵̡̠̲̙̰̖̼͔̣̗̳̱̝͍͈̫͉̗̦̦͍̯̘͙̙̰̦̻̯̤̪̝̌̍͑͊̊̏͌̆̍͆̚͘ ̴̡̧̛̛̠̭̮̖͍̰͇̘̰̖̰̳̣̙̲̖͔̜͇͓͎̬̟͈͈̖̲̬̿́̈́̑̓̊̃̊̅ ̶̱̗̪̟̎ ̴̡̨̫͍̙̺̤̝̦̳̹̞͈̠̻̤̥͔͙̲̯̺͕̖̭̱̣̹̤̦͎͕̓͒͋͌̓͐͆̽͆̾͆̔́͒̔̊̒̊̍̕̕̚ͅ ̸̨̧̡̨̣͕͔̦̫͍̺̘͙̭͇͚̬̘̪͎̖͇͎̘̟̥͇̤̺̪̮͕̄̈́̾̈́͜ͅ ̸̡̡̲͔͙̼͇̲̫͎̟̭̞̬̠̣̹̾̅̾͌̍̽́̿̋̎͘͝͠͠,̶̧̨̧̪͙̠̫͙̜̬͍̤̘͚̝̣͍̘̻̹̩̺̺̟̺͔̼̭̦̘͂̀̇͂̎͋͛̒̿̍̀̊̅͛̽̾͛̔̈̀̈͑͛̈́͂͊̐͑̌͑̕͘̚̕̕͠͝͠͝͝ ̴̨̨̨̛̞̖͉̻̘̘͕̣̙͇̺̲͍̩̞̩̳̻̱̼̪͖̙̀̿̋̿̀̑̈́̇͒̔̈́̐̊͐͂͐́̈́͆͋͋̽͛̈̉͊̄̚͜͝͝͝͠ͅ ̶̨̢̫̦̠̮̪̮̘̗̣̦̜̪̜͕̗̤̗̙̗͓͉͎͉̹̖̱͕̭͙͚̟̼̝̼̯̖͚̫̠̰̰͍̥̭͕͂̒̅̌͘͜͝ ̶̡̖̞͉̤̙̦͉͍̜͎̫͚̩͍̗͇̮͇͍̣̝̬̠̱̱̺͓͔̎͑̂̇͐̐̃̆͊̏̉̎̎͂̐͊͋͂̉̔̃̅̈́͋͐̀̈́̈̓͑̾̚̚̚͝͝į̴̨̧̛̰̺̪̫͍͍̤̤̟̮̱̯͖̖̥̬̟̠͗͂̊͑̈̿͋͒̊̂̃̑̎̏͐̉́̕͠͝t̵̡̨̝̝̲̙̦̗͙̠̖̖̞̩͖̳͖̬̦̗̝͔͙̳̲̪̺̰͈͓͚͕̹͐̋͛͒͂͊̈́̏͋̅͌̃͐̈́̍̓̿̒͘͘͜͝͝ͅͅ’̷̯͇͔̖̊͛̉̂̋̇͊̑̓͒́̌̆̌̀̑͒̌͂̓̀̌̀͑̅̾͘̕͘͝͝s̵̨̢̡̧̡̧̻͈͖͕̥̝̞̙̯̼̠̹̪̱͓̞̣̣͖̱͖̹̱͙̩̠̆̀͑̅́͒͌̀͜ ̴̧̨̡̧̧̡̞͕̝̞̝͕̫̣̰͈͇̮͉̭͇̜̳̯̮͙̩̩̘̺̗̟̜̤͇̦̰͖͙̩̓̿̾͐̉́̄̓̈͐͐̃̇́͛̂̐̀̑̀̾͛̀̆̎̀̆̑̚͘̚͜͠ͅͅͅm̷̨̛͚͚̟̘͚̠͔̟̲͚̼̺̘̳͔̼͖͙͖̦̦̲̗̎̇̉͗̄̈́̀͌̂̓̇̔̃͂̅̿̕̕͘͝y̵̜̦̹̠̝̺̲͈͇͓̜͓̠̬͍̼͚̤͔̦̫̗͚̪̓́̌̀̓̋̋͆̈́̋̓̀̇̀̔̈́͛̓̇̍̍̾͊͐̍͆͘̕̕͜͜͠͝͝͝͝ ̸̡̢̢̨̨̜̘͖̜̭̜͖̥͓̳͚̱̣̥͎̗̟͕̥͙̞̤̭̬̩͚͈̥͔̒̒̒̐̀̆̋͜͜͝ͅf̷̢̢͙̺͈͉͓̟̼̬̗̰͖͖̣͎̝̦͍̝̲̟͇̳̣̥̩̻̥̪̖̘̳͕̖͙̯̱̠͓͇̞͙̬̄̏͑̉̃̐̈͋̒̽̎̅̿̆̕͝͝a̶̧̡̧̨̢̡̘̯͍̝͈̝̳͎̘̫͓͔͔̘̗̪̱̻̪̝̝̩̟̝͉̘̮̦̼͍͓̯̭̲̘̹͎̔̓̔́̐̿̃̔̑̀͌͐̓̇̃̉͂̽̅̾̿̉̒u̷̢̡̢̧̱͍̝̦͉̳͍̳̠͔̻̮̥̳͚̙͈̤̲̰͔͓͉̟̟̙̩͓̙͉̩̮̞͇͇̟̦͌͆̿̑͜͜͝͝ͅͅl̶̢͈̖̫̟̪̬̩̦̻̟̫̺͍͉̂́̿͌̏̔͑͛͌ͅț̸̡̢̢̘̯̬̹̘̲̦̩̆̽̈́͗́̈͋̔̽́͒͐́͛̈́̃̍̿̈́̊́̾̆̒̈̌̿̇̕͝͝͠ͅ ̷̡̨̧͚̭̗͍͍̜̰̖̬̹̝͍͇̫̟̥͍̗̺̣͚͖̫̝̻̮̯͓͈̱͂̎͊̃̕͝ͅ ̵̨̧̢̧̼̮͙̬͓͇̖̙̞̤̖͍͈̫̙͚̩̣͇͙̱̝͚͍͉̤̗͛̆̓̈́̉̂̈́͑ͅ ̴̢̧̛̜̭̮̠̲̹̯͍͚̘̺̮͕͚̥̲͈̝͉͕̠̜̤̦͙̼̩̫̊̇̃̽̎̋͐̐̀̂͂̈̅ ̸̧̢̟̼͓̹̱̬͕͚͈͓̪̭͔̘̹̳͖̲̣̳̖͇̥̻̦̹͙̲̘̱̦͙͈͈̗̪͓̼͓̌̔̈͊̀̊̄̋͛̈́͆̔̾͒͋̃̿̾̍̊̽̆̉̂̐̂̾̃̇̈́͜͝͝͠ ̸̡̧̩̜̻͙͖̺͎̪̹̰̙̪͕̮̙͉͕̱͍͇̮̖͎̠̥̬̻̼͚̯̮̦̥͔̣̏̾̃̌̽̑̎̄̂̏̈͂͊̈́͐͜͜͝͝ͅͅ

that you’re gone