Alistair

You would have turned twenty five this week.
You would have been in America, still.
I would have been here.
I would have written you a message.
I would have tried to make it heartfelt.
I would have cried, writing it.
You would have asked me to Skype.
And I would have been awkward. But agreeable.
I would have told you how much I loved you.
I would have told you how much I missed you.
I hope.

It was your birthday on Monday.
I spent the day here, fighting back the tears.
Thinking about you.
Thinking about what could have been.
I think about you. Every day. Every night.
I fight back the tears.
Thinking, why did someone so good, have to die so young?
Thinking, why didn't I tell you how much I cared?
While you were still here. When you could have been mine.

You're in my heart. You're in my head.
And I'm trying to let go.
And I'm trying.

Coming Home To Nothing

"Your happiness doesn't live in Bali,"

He said.

"Your happiness lives in here."

His finger on my chest,

Reaching for my heart.

Little did he know,

It was buried much deeper.

Locked behind bars of defence,

Hidden by the wild vines of fear.

Trapped.

Alone.

And sad.

A Colleague

Somehow

(Even though we work under the same roof,

Seven days a week)

You barely see me.

Do you avoid me?

Do you avoid that sensation when your cheeks flush

(Red)

When we talk?

Do I make you nervous?

Because I know you make me weak.

Because I know you make me nervous.

Because I know you leave me breathless.

Because I know you'll never be mine.