Line by line,
Stroke by stroke,
It is high time I wrote this note.

This arrangement of letters
to words on a page
To explain why from this world I disengage.

To explain how I felt when you held my hand
And how it was from the moment we ran.
But we started too late and now here I am
Writing this note with the very same hand.

Truth be told, I hope no one ever sees
The note on which I have diseased
with my poisonous thoughts.
Perhaps I should leave.

But what kind of friend leaves without a note?
No piece of paper on which they have wrote
A note excusing why this is what they chose?

But what does it matter if I even try,
At any given moment, we all live or die.
And if that makes you sad, go ahead. Go on, cry.
A note with an excuse, is a note with a lie.

She snuck around and collided with He's heart
and then left as quickly as She came,
Funny how the beginning can mirror the end,
It was the same.

Just softer


But He did not forget that one and final collision.


And neither did I