Maybe today, I'll write a poem.
Because it's two hours passed too late and I'm too tired to write anymore love songs.
You'd never hear them anyways.
You see, I thought that maybe I could stop feeling sorry for myself and stop trying to make people like me. I thought that maybe instead of begging for you in my dreams, I could wake up and find someone else in reality. I guess that explains why I don't want to wake up most days.
And if the world was made solely for the purpose of finding 'the one', then I wonder why love is tossed around like ammunition. It blows the heart to bits more than once, that's for damn sure.
And if love is your favorite song, doesn't it grow old after awhile? To sit on the porch and decay like the wood? To kiss your cheek and pray that tonight isn't the night where the last breath of forever becomes your body?
I guess I want to know how you found her so quickly. Because despite all the evidence, my heart isn't convinced that you were the perpetrator. Can you really love so quickly after the way I loved you?
It shouldn't matter anymore. Because despite you being my favorite song, I was still flipping stations, wondering if maybe I'd gotten it wrong. Even though now, you're the only song I want to hear for the rest of reality and into my dreams.
So I'll lie to the police for awhile longer. After all, is denying that you're gone such a crime?
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