the coffin was made of cedar and so is your bed frame, but this time they are not the same thing. this time the dead girl stays in the right one and you fall asleep unhaunted. this time tomorrow keeps its hands to itself and yours don’t shake so much, yours don’t shake at all.
the good memories you keep inside your ribcage, like flowers that once bloomed but are slowly wilting without the sight of sunlight. the bad memories are taped inside in the shoebox that you set on fire and drowned in the lake and still keep under your bed. the bad memories are mosquitos against your skin and the good memories are bandaids desperately trying to cover the multitude of wounds but nothing is bleeding anymore and finally that’s okay.
you still cry when the sun comes up over the trees, just the way she liked it. you still cry when your bedroom smells like the wake and your pulse reads like her obituary. you still cry but your eyes are grey and hers were closed and they will never be the same thing. god forbid they ever be the same thing.