Two years is a long time
to feel the same thing;
to stand still,
everything around you
moving at the speed of light,
and they left you behind.
The cold, fresh spring
reminds me of then,
reminds me of now,
and I know somehow,
that one day this won't matter,
that one day this will end.
But that day is not today.
For now,
I will be content knowing
that through this age of darkness,
I found myself.
And maybe it's a sign
to reach into my subconscious
and pull out these words
of false hopes long-abandoned.
Maybe I'm just not ready to let go,
even though I know I should.
If only I would listen to myself,
for I am yet to be found.