I was the one worth leaving.
…and so, every day I ask myself if it was worth the time that I spent on you. Looking back, I can’t believe that I was so stupid to ever even think that it mattered. Despite what you have said, this was a fall back relationship; a relationship for the interims between your moments of self-confidence and depression. This was, for you, just knowing that you had somebody waiting there for you if you needed to pretend you loved them, when you were rejected by someone else.
I think about it, and it’s so sad. Just imagine this. Just imagine being lied to for 6 years, maybe more. Just imagine standing naked in front of someone that claimed he wasn’t wearing anything either, but later finding out that he was wearing a skin-colored suit the entire time. Just imagine loving someone so much that every other person you met was never good enough because the bar you held to their head said his name on it and was eight feet taller than they could ever reach. Imagine having your heart broken a dozen times.
Sad piano music plays as soundtrack to my life. It’s like sitting in a corner in the dark, listening to that pianist play; you can’t seem him, but you know that his whole being is broken heartedness. You can’t seem him but you know he’s crying, just like you, because this song is about somebody he used to love. He doesn’t know it, but you loved the same person, in a way. He doesn’t know it, but you love him now, too.
The strings are slowly plucked within the confines of the grandly sculpted shape of the instrument. The inner workings cry as their hair is pulled tight with each new note. The composition has a sort of beauty attached to it. It has a sort of bleeding sound, a kind of liquid quality to it that makes you feel like your heart beats in unison with the metronome that may as well be sitting on the mantle.
Imagine sitting in the same corner, listening to the same song, crying over the same broken heart every night until you can’t even breathe.
This is how it is.
Love is a silly sort of imagining. It’s a notion that’s nice on paper, sort of like communism, but won’t work in a practical sense.
It seems so out of context, remembering in this prison cell loneliness that contrasts everything I thought once was. The only thing keeping me here is knowing that leaving wouldn’t bother you, anyway. My mouth is dry like sandpaper, and it waits to be moistened by yours again.
I die in the dryness.
I was the one worth leaving. That’s all there is to know.
I think about it, and it’s so sad. Just imagine this. Just imagine being lied to for 6 years, maybe more. Just imagine standing naked in front of someone that claimed he wasn’t wearing anything either, but later finding out that he was wearing a skin-colored suit the entire time. Just imagine loving someone so much that every other person you met was never good enough because the bar you held to their head said his name on it and was eight feet taller than they could ever reach. Imagine having your heart broken a dozen times.
Sad piano music plays as soundtrack to my life. It’s like sitting in a corner in the dark, listening to that pianist play; you can’t seem him, but you know that his whole being is broken heartedness. You can’t seem him but you know he’s crying, just like you, because this song is about somebody he used to love. He doesn’t know it, but you loved the same person, in a way. He doesn’t know it, but you love him now, too.
The strings are slowly plucked within the confines of the grandly sculpted shape of the instrument. The inner workings cry as their hair is pulled tight with each new note. The composition has a sort of beauty attached to it. It has a sort of bleeding sound, a kind of liquid quality to it that makes you feel like your heart beats in unison with the metronome that may as well be sitting on the mantle.
Imagine sitting in the same corner, listening to the same song, crying over the same broken heart every night until you can’t even breathe.
This is how it is.
Love is a silly sort of imagining. It’s a notion that’s nice on paper, sort of like communism, but won’t work in a practical sense.
It seems so out of context, remembering in this prison cell loneliness that contrasts everything I thought once was. The only thing keeping me here is knowing that leaving wouldn’t bother you, anyway. My mouth is dry like sandpaper, and it waits to be moistened by yours again.
I die in the dryness.
I was the one worth leaving. That’s all there is to know.