Time Does Not Heal All Wounds
A Poem Written at 2:34 AM
It gets easier with time
is what they all said,
while my best friend
was being lowered into the dirt.
I almost believed them
until three years later
while I was packing my life
into boxes to get away from the place
where I lost my second self,
and I pulled his favorite sweatshirt
out from under my bed.
It still carried the scent
of cheap cologne, the kind
of scent that never leaves
your nostrils. The pure black
coffee still stained on the left shoulder
from the day he tripped over his goddamn
shoes that never got put away.
The pocket held the lighter he stole
from me because he could never
keep track of his own and god forbid
if he ever went five minutes
without a cigarette.
My vision quickly became
blurry, my breath caught
in my throat and my chest
grew heavier as I stared
at that sweatshirt of his.
It gets easier with time.
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