We hate good-byes, yet we say it too often. After a phone call. After a visit. When classes end. When we leave a restaurant. Perhaps these tiny good-byes are said too much to prepare us for the greater good-byes of the future.

But isn't it just strange how the things we hate are often what our mouths are full of? And with the same mouth we whisper the sincerest 'I love you's'.

We love. And the ones we love leave or the love we have leaves us as time passes by. Perhaps it is not good-byes we hate. Perhaps good-byes, themselves, aren't painful at all. 'Cause maybe it is the loving that we hate but we never truly admit it. 'Cause maybe all along we knew, with loving comes good-byes, and that idea is what's painful.

They* say that silence is golden...whatever that means.
They say that "no news is good news."
They say that to really understand someone, you need to "walk in his shoes."

Give me a break; cut me some slack; take a chill pill.
Who are they? And what gives them the right?

The silence I'm in is black.
It is not golden.
It does not shine with light.
It is empty, earth shattering heartbreak.
That is my silence.

No news is not good news: this doesn't even make sense as a math or logic problem.
No news is never good news when you're dangling off of the edge of your emotional downfall-- holding on by your fingertips.
No news is not good news when you're struggling to keep your head above water, but your body is becoming heavy with doubt.

And my shoes? They don't even fit me properly half of the time.

So tell me, who are they?
Because I want to see their golden silence, understand how their lack of news is a positive... and I bet their shoes don't fit me either.

My heart was covered by ice
Now it has melted cause of lies
And I realize what's under it
Is way too weak
I had never cried
Now my pillow shines bright
I used to be strong
Now I feel like in these stupid songs
I've got knives in my chest
My throat is all compressed
It's so hard to keep breathing
I guess I just started what's called living

"What happens after we die?" She asked.

"Well, I'm not sure, really. But what I'm sure of is that when a moment dies, it gets resurrected in the mind as a memory."

"Will I be just a memory to you someday?"

"Maybe, but some memories are better than others. And when I become a memory too, I will find you, and together we will go to that one magical place where memories become moments once more."

"You know what? When you left, I've found myself in this extreme state of emptiness and misery."

"Oh yeah? How was it like?"

"It's like having your soul being dragged away from your body."

"That's just sad. You should get it back."

"I want to, but I can't."

"Why so?"

"Because I think it's still entangled with yours."

"What is pain to you?" She asked.

"It's when you can't accept the fact that the person who was once dying to have you is now dying to forget you."