To me you are like gravity. Whenever I‘m flying too high, you‘re pulling me back onto the ground. And whenever I‘m away for too long you pull me back in.
Out of focus - eye to eye - until the gravity‘s too much.
When you left, the worst thing wasn’t the cold in my bed. Neither the heat in my heart that you burned down.
When you left, the worst thing wasn’t the need to hear your voice or to talk to you about what’s going on.
When you left, the worst thing wasn’t crying myself to sleep. Neither the screaming in the middle of the night when I realized you wouldn’t come back.
When you left, the worst thing was losing me. You made it look so easy to leave me. Like I was nothing. Like everything you ever told me was a lie. Like you didn’t need me at all. Like nobody could ever need or love me.
