My brain is fried-
My thoughts askew,
Back to things
You Didn't
Do.

September to July
Wasn't long enough
Introverted, you didn't
Hit Me
'Til the end.

I cry into my knees,
Sometimes, missing you.
No touch is ever
Stone Enough
To satisfy the anger.

No touch is ever
Cold Enough
To ice away the pain.

Your stony eyes tell stories
That others don't.
I can't read them.
But Maybe That's A Good Thing
For me.

Sometimes, the roar of music
I've never even heard
Is so familiar,
I Can Hear Your Voice Whisper,
But never approach
Audibility.

Regret.