I've not had it for a while,
But that's my coping style.
Random, spontaneous crashes.
Where tears adorn my lashes.
I may not cry at their death.
Or at the funeral when they've left.
But months later when it's sunk in,
That the chance to see them again has been fin.
The sudden realisation
That it wasn't my imagination,
And that they are always going to be gone.
Those words in my mouth feel so wrong.
But that's just my way of coping.
Numbing myself until an opening,
Worms it's way into my little soul.
Where it lays until cajoled.
Β©Odd
I'm not sure if anyone else suffers with these realisation crashes. Bit it's my way of coping. And there it is, in black and white.
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