that night

I was lying on the cold black cement underneath the streetlight, hoping and not hoping for death all at once. You were lying on your bed, trying to sleep, not wondering or worrying about me. I called you crying, wondering why you were not worrying. Even now, I still wonder. I still worry. I just don’t lay under streetlights with hope anymore.

the missing

i like to give you little pieces of myself, to let you know that i'm still here.

one day i will be completely gone.