You're an open book, bound at both ends
I compare myself to the way bright lights hit black water at night. I would like to kill time. You think your heart is broken? I've always wanted to compare. When you wake up on winter mornings, and step barefooted onto a hardwood floor, that's how my insides feel. Except even winter has a peaceful sort of grace. Snow makes things quiet. Prettier. At peace. But even snow never offered to save me. I'm sure I would have refused, anyway. I look empty in the mirror. It doesn't lie, and it knows all of the things that I never tell.
One grows tired of questions that are never asked. Our paths never cross at the right second. Having no one to write for is like being dead. Lines don't have as much meaning if they're not being sent in the right direction. The birds with the sweet songs have flown south, and again, I forgot the laws of nature.
Insomnia. At four in the morning, I can see the big dipper out my bedroom window. We used to stop the car on our drives and look at the stars together. But I forgot to say the right thing, answer the right question. Now it's a struggle to make my mind remember the way you looked at me, the way your eyes lit up when you saw me. Now it feels strange knowing that we always want to touch each other, but don't, or can't, for reasons neither of us can ever explain.
I don't know where I'm going or what i'm doing, and all I really notice is that you aren't noticing. we aren't the same, and I don't write the way I used to. There's more than one pattern that I feel trying to break apart my ribcage. I miss you.