Just Like You Did

By: Deborah Coss
Submitted: 2007-01-17 11:23:52
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Today, the sky is blue, the air is warm,
And I kept very busy working all day.
But somehow, busy is never enough.
I still find time to think of you.
If I could trade in all these haunting memories,
For just an hour or two of your time,
So we could have an honest heart to heart talk,
Just me and you...
But that won’t happen,
Cuz you never were honest,
And you are done using me.
God how I hate the truth today.
At least I hate it right now.
I’m still looking for someone
to take your place.
But I meant it when I told you,
I love you - body, mind and soul.
How do you turn that off?
How do you stop loving?
How do you forget?
How do I lose myself
and start all over again?
No one compares to you
and that is so sad.
Because truth be told,
you weren’t all that...
Except to me.
To me, you were my everything.
So today was just another day.
Tomorrow will be just another…
And the day after that...
I pray that each and every one of them,
May be the very day,
I learn to let go and move on.
Just like you did.

Deborah Coss, has been writing since she was 8 years old, getting published off and on since 15, and finally realized her child hood dream, of carrying press credentials, when she worked for http://www.womanmotorist.com She now publishes her own site, http://www.1kindthing.com She also creates some fine arts, and loves photographer, commneting that she is a social portraiture photographer. In art, she has a very constructionist attitude in art and loves making masks and other 3 dimensional objects. In photographer, she loves the medium of black and white. She is a diverse writer, and has published several types of sites for several types of businesses. On a personal side, she is a survivor of an extremly violent childhood and some personal trauma, including being crushed by a car at age 3 and half. Thus, her site 1kindthing.com, tells of overcoming hardships, in addition to her many other styles of writing. She is a baby boomer, raised in Southern California.

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