twenty-one october
nine : forty-four a.m.

i am not ok. today is not ok. the sky is white, like it has been all week.

it's been one year. one year since she pulled the knife out of you, one year of shaking and singing along, trying to hit the lowest notes, crying because there's no chance, now. because we all thought we knew you.

it's been one year, and i still can't write about it. nothing happens. i can't explain the way each one of us felt so connected to you.

Now that we've all heard, the holy choir sounds a little different at night. We're all having dreams that you come play piano next to us, and maybe we make you some tea and lay a reassuring hand on your arm. We all have our separate ways of secretly believing that someone, something, anyone, anything could have been enough.
One more day, one more shot, one more word. I know exactly how you felt and I insist on believing you wanted to be saved. It's strange how grief still makes you superhuman, when all you wanted was to show that you were plain and lonely and done.
-sang