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Description
It stings, like a papercut ...

... given by these words I am enticed to write

As do the enticer of which they speak; they ring with such influence

The sound, so dreadful, it makes my ears bleed ...

Is it better, indeed, for lightning to strike you down

So that we are torn apart by force

In the life given to us, most would disagree

They think the cold wind of death akin to a nightmare.

Or ... is it more painful

For the gravity, the flames and sparks of life, to melt your glue

So that we have have strayed apart

Unable to bind the torn paper back together ...

I can hear you, but I can no longer feel your presence

You have disappeared, wander the world alone to this day ...

No. It is only I, of course, that you have lost.

And though a disdainful notion, in the least, I did believe ...

It's alright, though; indeed, you shall live on in my mind

Though it is only an illusion ... you are somewhere else, outside

Perhaps you have forgotten me, and I will be trapped

In this past, our past, to only repeat over and over, never ending?

Or perhaps, you do remember me?

At the most extreme, you recall me as I do you

And I am granting you the same bittersweet pain

Even apart, I am no good, your pain, my tears ... pathetic.

I still see those days, live in them even

Though they were agonising, I am now left with greater agony and a bittersweet sting

I was truly blinded by the light of the past, thinking only of myself

I blotted you out.

...

You have inspired me to write these words. In a way it is akin to a letter from you.

Though painful, written on torn paper by bloody hands, rough edges, and riddled with papercuts

Though stained with my tears, nostalgia, and miserable means of interpretation

I must dare to utter the words ... thank you, my dear friend ...

(Life does not care if its objects become dirty, bloodstained ... life must go on, mercilessly, and without an end ... the cycle repeats.)

Description
It stings, like a papercut ...

... given by these words I am enticed to write

As do the enticer of which they speak; they ring with such influence

The sound, so dreadful, it makes my ears bleed ...

Is it better, indeed, for lightning to strike you down

So that we are torn apart by force

In the life given to us, most would disagree

They think the cold wind of death akin to a nightmare.

Or ... is it more painful

For the gravity, the flames and sparks of life, to melt your glue

So that we have have strayed apart

Unable to bind the torn paper back together ...

I can hear you, but I can no longer feel your presence

You have disappeared, wander the world alone to this day ...

No. It is only I, of course, that you have lost.

And though a disdainful notion, in the least, I did believe ...

It's alright, though; indeed, you shall live on in my mind

Though it is only an illusion ... you are somewhere else, outside

Perhaps you have forgotten me, and I will be trapped

In this past, our past, to only repeat over and over, never ending?

Or perhaps, you do remember me?

At the most extreme, you recall me as I do you

And I am granting you the same bittersweet pain

Even apart, I am no good, your pain, my tears ... pathetic.

I still see those days, live in them even

Though they were agonising, I am now left with greater agony and a bittersweet sting

I was truly blinded by the light of the past, thinking only of myself

I blotted you out.

...

You have inspired me to write these words. In a way it is akin to a letter from you.

Though painful, written on torn paper by bloody hands, rough edges, and riddled with papercuts

Though stained with my tears, nostalgia, and miserable means of interpretation

I must dare to utter the words ... thank you, my dear friend ...

(Life does not care if its objects become dirty, bloodstained ... life must go on, mercilessly, and without an end ... the cycle repeats.)