The End..

This is my 945th poem,
and sadly, it'll be my worst.
I can't feel, I can't breathe, I can't think.
I'm only made up of the hurt.

Every word comes flooding back to me,
every word you've ever said.
And I think, dear reader, I am dying.
Or maybe I'm already dead.

Truly, truly I tell you.
I loved you, I love you, I do.
But maybe, just maybe, dear reader,
this is the best I can do for you.

I know that I can't face tomorrow.
I know that I can't face today.
I know that I'm dying here slowly
and that it'll never fully go away.

The numbness is creeping up from my toes
and I'm going to fall asleep ashen and blue.
Forgive me, forgive me, we're crying...
and babe, it's the end, and it's true.

I'm sorry for wasting almost a year,
twelve months flew by too damn fast.
I'm sorry I can't make it anymore..
I'm sorry we're not going to last.

I promise I'll never promise forever,
not to anyone ever again.
And I'm so scared that the air's running out.
I'm so scared that I'm already dead.

What happens when it all crashes
and I'm lying on the shower's floor?
I'll tell you, I won't, you'll never know...
we don't know each other anymore.

It hurts, but the writer is crying.
This is the end of the poem, I fear.
This is the last poem that I will ever write...
I love you, I'm sorry, my dear.