I'm sorry I'm not strong enough anymore. It bleeds together, spilling open from my veins and leaking into the crevices on the pavement worn down from the footsteps of a million strangers. Things can be easily forgotten, but distraction is just a word and this feeling cannot be defined to a single one. The left side of my brain tells me it cannot be tangible, but I can feel it pulling me back, filling up my head until I can no longer ignore it. It lingers in the mirror, takes me by surprise at the bottom of my cup of coffee, and keeps me company at night; singing me to sleep and getting tangled up in my sheets. I can feel it soaking my palms and thumping impatiently against my ribs. I can sense it weighing down the pit of my stomach, and I know that a thousand butterflies could not even compete.
And when I check to see if my most vital organ is still there, because we all need reminders sometimes; it's shrouded in a layer of dust because no-one has dared to visit, and I'm old enough to know that ghosts don't leave fingerprints. Least of all, your own.
