The strawberry milk boy. The lights are on but nobody is home kind of boy. The lost boy. There's something about his hands and how ever since that first spark you haven't stopped feeling the burning sensation on your thighs. Something about how every time you're rocking your body over his you want to whisper about loving him but never quite having the gumption. Something about knowing that it never lasts. Something about the broken glass on the kitchen floor and the way you always walk through it without shoes on. Something about knowing you'll get hurt and knowing it shouldn't be like this. Something about needing more. Something about always being the one to say sorry anyway. Something about the end.

I love this.
Some times I wish this would simply go on.
When we talk and make sense of the world.
You make sense of my world.
And I used to make sense of your humor.
There was always something behind it, wasn't there?
You never said anything that didn't mean something.

I got so paranoid about talking to you when we were done.
Lord, you still to this day still reply,
Yet, I think you hate me?
Huh, we are funny.
But that's all you needed, to make people laugh.
To distract the world from who you were.
But I saw through that mask.
I actually started to get you.
And you got scared.

I don't know who made up a better story, you or me.
You, for saying that you didn't get scared.
Or me, for saying that I never cared.
That was almost a perfect rhyme.
That's also how she saw us.
The perfect match, you and I.
Maybe that scared you more.
That she approved of me.
She thought I was good for you.
But you had to be right.

I can't wait to hear why we ended.
I doubt I'll ever ask.
Maybe one day I'll get up the courage.
But for now I'll be content talking about *******.
And you'll go along with it.
I mean, it already happens, often.