There are so many
Pages of my diary
That haven't been written
In since you left me.
I pick up my pen
Night after night,
But nothing comes out
That ever feels right.
I could write about
How I miss you
And what you always
Got me through,
But what does that leave?
Thoughts unspoken of
Times I couldn't breathe.
It wasn't perfect,
But I loved it so.
I could write about
The fights we all know,
Like how you told me
To cut deeper
Or the time
You acted like the Grim Reaper
Ripping my heart open
With your sythie
And stabbing me with
Your word-spun knife.
Now, I guess, I'll try
To unbend
The twisted thoughts
Of our love's end.
