Their tears could fill buckets—enough to water the flower seeds scattered around your tombstone. Most of them whisper, "In our hearts, you will be remembered," and some wish you a blissful eternal slumber.
I cannot quite comprehend how, in that tiny body of mine, I managed to harbor complex feelings while they weep and grieve.
I sit in silence, alone with this all-consuming ache; safe but stranded in solitary confinement.
I, with dried flowers in hand, watch as they slowly, achingly, let go of you.
Recalling ocean-deep promises you failed to keep. Recounting pixelated memories that will soon fade.
Reminiscing...reliving...regretting...
I silently watched them weep and grieve. Everyone loves you. They all do. But what should I do if my cries are silenced in familiar isolation, and if my only way of self-preservation is to loathe the remnants of you?
—everyone loves you (except me)
justsaturnine
