The Void

I can't let the anchor of the past go.

It's as if the past has its roots laced within my ribs, grounding me.

Reminding me of the goodbyes.

The compassion of empathy is becoming destructive.

It's as if I am waiting for the anchor of the past to be let free.

The anchor that carries the memories.

Then the fear surfaces.

For when the anchor is let go, I will forget.

Forgetting not only the memories, but those within.

Empathy comes easy when you harbor the same grief.