The Aftermath

At this point thinking about him is dissecting a corpse.
I wish I could just move on but I feel trapped.
He was, in a way, my escape
every time the world closed in on me.
Now he's just another dangerous swamp.
A kind word, here and there
lets me breathe
for a little bit
but then I sink deeper yet again.

I finally took some pictures of him
and noticed some details that I didn't know before
like he had freckles on his arms
and looked a little sad behind every smile.

This is me projecting, finding entry wounds
with no exit ones and no bullets inside.
This is me wishing it was as painful for him
as it was for me
and I know it was
he said as much
but he was not talking about the getting over part.

I wish he looked the same 
but had a more open mind.
I wish he looked almost the same
but maybe without the ugly shorts.
I wish he were a different person 
but still had the same hands and the same eyes.
I never really liked him that much the way he was
probably that's what he knew all along...

There is no closure in an autopsy,
I'm writing just to get things out of my head.
You learn what you learn,
but the dead don't just get up and walk again.
All I can do for now is wait
for another distraction
or better yet,
a proper reason
to get out of this morgue for good.