You wouldn’t believe this, but I read our story. The one we hid from the others; the one we wrote together. It actually began to fuck with my mind. I wanted to stop reading, I wanted the memories to stop submerging my already crowded mind; however I just couldn’t stop. I needed to see it through to where we left off and sadly it’s ironic. Such an abrupt way to leave the story untold, a crippled memory of what once was our passion, left to the eyes of the assumption of death and suffering. Just like our friendship; our relationship.
I miss the affection; I miss our secret, but I could never miss the lies. I miss the creation, the inspiration, but I just couldn’t miss the judgmental eyes. I know I’ve come close to finding myself through the years, but what about you?
Do you now choose to live for yourself? Or simply still force yourself to move to the closed minded tunes? Not letting yourself be truly happy, but instead settling for what you’re taught was ‘right’ to do.
What we had was real, there’s no way you can deny that. I’d like to see you try. You ran from love once, spit in it’s face and ran for the hills. Are you still running, or have you found your thrills?
However pathetic this may be to say, I really do still think about you; but I know I was merely an experiment; quite opposite from the bird and the bee.
I guess for you it shall always be he for she and she for he.