Most days, I spend my hours in a constant state of unconsciousness. I can no longer find the purpose for living. Hours pass, the time slips from between my hands, and every trace of you claws its way off the tips of my fingers, just as your hands escaped mine. Maybe that’s why it pains me so much to be alive, because I feel stuck in a continuous state of death;
every breath that I take steals one you could’ve been letting out. everything I do feels so worthless in the wake of all that you aren’t I can’t find a meaning in the definitions you didn’t carve into my lungs.