I still write of you
Incessantly
It is quite unfair
To me
Because you will never see the words
Across these pages
Let alone read them,
When we were entwined
You never cared to read my things
So now that you owe nothing to me
Why should things change?
You have your own leather bound notebook
With your name sloppily scrawled
In the center
As a warning for those with prying pupils
Not to bother
They all know the story's ending,
A girl with many gashes
And a boy who slept through the ambulance siren.
It is unfair to you as well,
All these things I silently say of you
Are biased by my feelings
A broken heart that hurts to beat
That bangs around inside my chest,
Wishing that it was inside of yours
In the glory of your lesser organs.
But you deserve better
Than to have my memories of us
Scuttling around in my
Cluttered thoughts
And a notebook was the very best
That I could do.
