8 Days time

Have these days really been fine? 

Living off of 3 cups of coffee

Followed by 3 cups of wine

Hoping, and coping with the idea of hope

Angry at myself for imagining another life

Has it really been only eight days time?

You were with me, then you went

And we were forced to say goodbye

It’s hard not to be mad sometimes

It’s hard not to cry, then when I don’t cry

It’s hard to be happy and still feel alright

A little ashamed to be bitter, and sad to wish others knew

…or at least I felt like they did

Not sure how to remember in an honorable way

Not sure how or what to forget, to begin to feel ok

Anger at times, though hidden–seems like the only way

To choose how I react or mourn

Is really for no one, but me to say


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