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