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Wishbone

She says "I love you." He says it back.

But what exactly is this "love" that seems to come up in every conversation they've ever had?

Trust me, this feeling has grown on me. It isn't bad.

But it's an emotion created inside our own heads.

It was designed to describe our feelings towards the dead.

Now love is associated with happiness.

Time has changed the definition.

And everybody who's in love makes it their mission to avoid the original depressing side of love.

Every mission fails.

I don't care if my mission fails too because I want to experience love.

I want you.

I want to help you pick the roses that you walk by everyday.

I want to walk home with you instead of two blocks away, I mean, we live so close to each other, so why can't I just walk you home?

I just want to make you happier than a child in December.

I want more than just short conversations that you'll never remember.

But when will you realize that when you smile, I fall apart?

It melts the glue inside the cracks of my broken heart.

Those pieces spread throughout my body and cover up my insides

And now I literally can't find the guts to ask you out.

I can't find the guts to ask her out.

She's all I ever think about

But when she was sixteen
She heard the angels sing
She wanted to be with the angels.
She wanted to be free.

She wanted to somehow forget her family history.

She tried to jump to heaven but she couldn't seem to stay, so she tied a rope around her neck to hold herself in place.

To keep herself in the air. To get away from it all.
She tied the knot tight to assure she wouldn't fall.

But apparently, it was no surprise that she took her life away because her family, her classmates had been counting down the days.

They all saw it coming. Nobody interfered.

I never knew a damn thing. I just sat here... thinking of her.

All she ever wanted was to be accepted in this world.

To be known not as a failure, but at least an average girl.

And to me, she was at least perfect.

The second she left, our wishbone snapped.

But no wishbone snaps in two perfect halves. One side always has more.

It may be broken, but it has more left inside of it.

And now I stand by your grave with roses in my hands

And the little sign I made to ask you to the homecoming dance.

I wish you got to see it. It was only two more weeks.

But now I'm sitting here wondering who got the bigger the piece of our wishbone?

Because you can't feel a thing... or at least not anymore.