| better words . . . . here there and everywhere |
With each sigh, the city gets bigger and moves further from me. I regret the day that I will meet you on the street and have nothing to say. But there is only pain between us, and I grow tired of walking away and healing myself, alone, without grace. This will stop. I cannot take it anymore. And I wish that I did not have to mourn for us. I wish that there hadn't been so much happiness between us, so that I would have nothing to look back fondly upon, so I wouldn't wonder if this was all some big mistake. Those really good memories confuse me most. But you look at me with those eyes that always spoke too much, and they tell me you feel it too. And I'm so used to being the bad guy that I might as well jump first. And then everyone can blame me for being insensitive and mean, and you won't say anything, and you certainly won't tell them that you felt it too, and secretly wished for it. You would think that I write about a lover that I must let go. It is not a lover. It is a friend. And it is so much harder. |
better places . . . . over under and through |