It is pathetic, isn't it...
that I still write about you.
warped up scribbles on pieces of paper, choruses of words stringed together, phrases that punctuate the air of consciousness. -
that I still ponder about you
that, my thoughts are words, comprised of memories, intertwining scenes,
bringing to life all the have-been, would-have-been, and should-have-been,
that I still long for you
that, my breath, my thought, my heart,
yearns, breaks, everyday at the thought of every passing day
without you.
that I still want you.
