first you take a little piece, might as well take a little more
so i'm feeling a bit angsty and friend-sick (like home sick but worse in my opinion) and this little number came out of it. feel free to tell me what's wrong with it.
I’m gone. But I’m not. I’m here, you’re gone. And in your leaving you have taken away little pieces of me. There’s always the leaving. Always. That’s why you leave first. Run. Run fast ‘cause if you don’t they will and the hurt is less this way. Constant and throbbing like a toothache but much better than the bullet shot of being left behind. But not this time. This time it was you. you left. my old friend, my new one, my conscience, my recklessness, my music, my wind. Each of you leaving and taking little pieces of me with you. so that there is so little left i can no longer disern the whole. In going away you find a new definition. A new you. you change and grow and transform into something so different it’s the same. I don’t get to start over. There are no new faces, only old ones, and the constant phone calls to remind me that while you still care, soon you’ll be too different. Too new. Too far. She did it too. Italy changed her. And me. And it was/is my decision to stay. but I can’t quite reconcile the fact that I chose to be left behind.
I’m gone. But I’m not. I’m here, you’re gone. And in your leaving you have taken away little pieces of me. There’s always the leaving. Always. That’s why you leave first. Run. Run fast ‘cause if you don’t they will and the hurt is less this way. Constant and throbbing like a toothache but much better than the bullet shot of being left behind. But not this time. This time it was you. you left. my old friend, my new one, my conscience, my recklessness, my music, my wind. Each of you leaving and taking little pieces of me with you. so that there is so little left i can no longer disern the whole. In going away you find a new definition. A new you. you change and grow and transform into something so different it’s the same. I don’t get to start over. There are no new faces, only old ones, and the constant phone calls to remind me that while you still care, soon you’ll be too different. Too new. Too far. She did it too. Italy changed her. And me. And it was/is my decision to stay. but I can’t quite reconcile the fact that I chose to be left behind.