none of it matters
they were just words
sure, there were reasons, and
a story
(there is always a story)
but in the silence of not knowing
i can't hear anything, but
the sound of you
not speaking
while i write about acceptable things
wishing i could call, laughing
about how walking and wearing makeup
is multitasking

of course, only weeks have passed
and already i ignore
that this is the third time
you've cut me away, like
offending fat on a good steak
(fat makes it better, if you let it melt in)

so those words do matter
because they mark the grave of you
refusing to be anything, but
perfectly deceased
and me, dying a little bit too
as i slowly omit
everything that hurt

even forgetting leaves a mark