yesterday

What do I have to go on?

Is it the thousands of words of love that echo in every corner of my heart when I remember you?

Or is it how those echoes don't pierce and shatter each muscle?

Is it the shadow of your touch across my skin?

Or is it the way I feel nothing of it?

Where do I go now?

If not your arms when I'm frightened of the dark,

Do I seek mine in this dread?

If I don't run to you...

To whom do I run?

What do I feel?

Do I miss you, hate you, love you, call for you all at the same time?

Yes.

Every fibre of my being wrestles to hold onto you,

While my heart — already beaten down in love — lets you go like just another yesterday.

How could you be just another yesterday?

Three-hundred and fifty nine days that I would never cry for?

How could the remembrance of you not rip me apart?

How does seeing your face be just another event of my day?

Am I content with you losing me?

Will I be okay with losing you?

I laugh at my insincerity.

Of course, if you ask me to—

I'll come back running like a sunflower to your sunrise.

Of course, I'll write over every spot of ink,

With words of love and fondness.

Of course, I'll be here.

Where else would I be?

What do I have to go on, either way?