Because heaviness feels lighter sometimes

She tells me she doesn't believe in suicide.
I tell her she can say she doesn't believe in cancer but as "we speak there might be a wrecking ball tearing through your lungs, your heart, your brain."
I tell myself I don't believe in love. But I know it's just as real as the water I pretend I'm not drowing in.

I can still hear the screams and the silence just as loud.

She tells me she has no patience for laziness or sadness. Which nearly brings me to tears but I can't stand the thought of her leaving. I want to argue with her on this, but I am so afraid of her defenses, so I don't. Just like everyone else.

But she gets lost in moments in a way that only someone who has known sadness can.

Some nights I dream about her secrets, because it's as close as I'll ever get. The days after, I talk of things like trust and love and a lightness that I know she can''t remember. Because sometimes I can't help it, though everytime she laughs and tells me I should stop believing in fairytails. But when she's not looking I smile, because I know some small part of her still believes. I'm still standing here beside her.