It's coming back.
My style,
my feeling.
It's all coming back to me.
I'm bouncing back and forth
between the being
and the in-between,
but it's coming back to me.
But so are the memories.
Every memory of you and me
every time it was just us three.
They're all coming back to me
as if they're here to haunt me.
Will we ever be like we were?
We were glass that I broke.
And now I'm holding a shard too close to my heart
with every memory the cut goes farther
deeper and deeper inside of me.
When I shattered like glass
And broke us too
I didn't know we'd all
Be so blue.
It was something,
I had to do.
But I've hurt me,
and I've hurt you too.
It's coming back,
my style,
my feeling,
but so are the memories,
of every single meeting.
The glass of us that I broke,
I am reshaping,
but I cannot pretend,
I am not also shaking,
from the blood dripping down my arm,
as I try to piece together
the vase we once were
the vase that I shattered.
