The pictures

I wonder just exactly what it was that you saw when you looked at me.

How could one person see through the layers, see past the things I hold inside

and find the person I continually try to hide?

I’ve been looking at pictures of you and you looked so happy.

What did I miss?  How could you do this?

I hold onto your death while it tears me apart,

while I try to discover just what went on in your heart.

I look at your face in the few photos I have,

just like me, always smiling, even your eyes laugh.

And if I were wiser than I was at the time,

knowing nothing will change, that it’s all in my mind,

I could have told you I loved you, showed you I cared,

instead of turning my back like you never were there.

And it’s all my fault.  I couldn’t save you,

but I feel like I was the person to break you,

and I didn’t have to be.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The thought that I’ll never see you again

breaks a heart that was already broken back then

when I callously turned you away.

Now it’s too late.

You will never hear all the words I have to say

or read all the lines I am forced to right

every single night.

So I look at the pictures and I close my eyes,

imagine you with me, that the real world’s a lie.

In the dreams I am crying because you are just fine

and you never left me and you are all mine.

As your arms circle around me because you see the tears fall,

I wake from my dreaming because you’re dead and that’s all.

These dreams are too perfect, I know that they’re wrong

and my eyes shoot open and I know that you’re gone.

I look at your picture, your unblinking eyes,

wishing my mind would let me sleep with the lies.

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