I was far above the clouds that day, far above Springhill and Marriott A month before your departure, a month too soon Feeling nothing, yet everything, Waiting to be swept by another wave of sorrow and selfishness, Much like the whitecaps that pour onto the coast.
Part of me had hoped to be whisked away by the water, As if leaving first would make it hurt less, But whether you stay or leave, I have lost either way. I would beg you to stay here with me if it weren't selfish, pathetic All the things in which I already am, Too stubborn to admit it, though.
The spite burdens me, seeing those hand in hand, Mine, empty. The loss has turned me into what I am not, because summer came as you went. So I hate the heat and I curse at the sun, Pinning the blame on them Though they had nothing to do with it.
Had I not met you, I would not be here, Fixed after the loss but broken after it too. This is a new kind of loss, Not the kind where you will not return, But the kind where I am stuck waiting, Impatiently painting, And staying up to tell the moon about you.
The saddest part of it is that I don't think you missed me at all.
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