Skip to content
How strange it is to read yourself, long after the young you has died and become,
Did the angst the pain the endeavour really feel so black, deadly and cruel?
Were those long dark nights, so endless and filled with pity
Did the love lost, hurt so bad and wound so deep?
You sounded so alone, so empty
I cried for you (and me) but sent no words,
As the love you had was real, I couldn’t feel that way anymore
The love now is for the ones that have come after
The only moments in my life where I helped to create perfection
And the love, so different, slower
Yet hard to contemplate in the older me.
I miss you sometimes and wish that we could have been friends,
Or at least,
© PG Allen
Copyright protection is active on this page. If you would like to use this content then please contact the site administrator with your request.