Wondering where you are. Wondering what you might be doing right now. What you could be thinking at the moment.
Looking through the window while the raing takes the piss with the summer. Wondering if you ever think about us, what went wrong, what it could have been.
And the shivering says it doesn't matter, nothing would change the past, neither the future we never had. Who cares if I think about you everyday, being you somebody that only exists in my imagination, somebody you never were, and never were to be.
Because the end was the begining of our story. We were never real, just a bunch of lies so eager to believe.And the memories, those sparks of happiness tumbling in my mind, question me every day. My answers range from gratitude to hunger, making me wonder if oblivion is either a burdeon or a relief.
Don't get me wrong.
I miss you, but just the way I remember you.