Angry people make good suspects

I still think about you every hour,
Despite my efforts not to,
I still go back, wandering in that space in my soul which is only yours.
It has been yours for two years now.

I still hear your voice saying my name,
My real name
The name that holds my identity,
A name that has never sounded so sweet as it did from your lips.
Lips that I miss and crave so much.

I'm not sad, nor am I happy, just angry,
Facing the reality that once more comes crashing down on me,
Reminding me again how unlucky I am.

I don't actually care if I'm judged by others.
But again,
The truth knows no harbor.
It's left swimming, drowning, and sinking deep without a destination.
Maybe that's why angry people make good suspects
We carry the weight of the unsaid,
The unfinished