Undead, unliving

She grieved the undead, unliving.
Those who have done or are doing the same
will know what I mean by this.

Undead unliving.

Just one letter away from unloving
and yet a world apart.

The lucky few who don’t
stop here
this is untrue for you and won’t matter.
Prance away and be blessed
be gone now.

Thank you.

So she grieved the undead, unloving, unliving.
Yes let’s include it, for it is not love.
Unlusted lust?

The stories she told herself falling apart page by page.
unturned.
Letter by letter.
unread
by others.
Over read
by her.

Undead, unliving

God, what clichés we all are.
Same story
over and over
Bla bla bla.

All the living unlived.
All the loves undead. Not deceased.
Diseased.
Deceived.

She did this so well that it made her unwell.
So I asked her to rewrite the stories.
For her own sake.
Slightly for my own as well.

Grieving drains energy.
From both side you see.
Spent unwell. The unwell spent.

I asked her to choose her own living.
So to speak, meaning the kind of living that matters.
The uncounted counted.
Grieve nothing but unlived truth, I said.
In time you will heal.

Undead, unliving

As I stepped slowly, step by step,
just a whisper really
barely heard
in fact.
Yet there I was
Slowly stepping
right at her heals
whispering.

Listen.

Knowing that I
myself
was one of her undead (unloving) unlived
and that she
in no way
should be listening to me.

Yet, I couldn’t help myself.
Unheard of really, the whole story.
Cliché.
For those who it matters to.
You?