Isn’t it funny, how you’re always too busy,
Until it’s too late.
But have the audacity to stand at my funeral and boast of how I was great.
And tell everyone who will listen of how you’ll miss me forever, but I can’t remember the last time we shared a day together.
And you’ll kiss my photograph, beside your bed, and maybe even a few tears might shed, but more for the guilt that plays in your head, more for your self-pity that lingers to be fed.
You’ll be showered in hugs, and words of comfort and love, and be told of how I’ll always watch you from the above. How I’ll be there with you every step of the way, from the break of light to the end of the day. You’ll look at them, all doe eyed and quiet, hiding the truth of your internal riot.
You’ll sit by the sea, and think of me, and what we could be doing, the endless possibilities constantly brewing, a web of thoughts and endless emotions strewing, months of denial slowly undoing.
And they’re right, I am watching you from above, I am watching out of disbelief, not out of love.
Who have you become?