I hate talking about this because it’s terribly cliché.
As much as I try to push it away; it comes back some days.
After she left, I’ve been mourning every morning.
You need to get a grip.
You’re young.
You really shouldn’t be so strung.
You’ll have bigger problems that will come.
I’ve heard these lines from so many people.
And I know myself pity needs to stop.
I’m the farmer with no harvest to crop.
I look up to the top of my church, and picture myself standing at the steeple.
From up here everyone is a blur.
From up here I feel like my depression can’t reach.
From up here I can’t see her face insuring my heart won’t skip out of place.
From up here I’m eye level with the birds, and they tell me to join them.
I step forward, and stretch my arms out.
Spoiler
Rough brain storm draft. I'll take it back to the lab soon.
