i don't know if it's just me,
but there is a comfort in sadness.
like the embrace of an old friend
it feels, like home.

I always thought memories would decay with time, but they only seem to become more tangible.

It feels like I'm making a rope with them.

Twisting and braiding them together, gathering them up like twine.

Hanging on every moment, every recollection, every thing about you.

I'm conscious of my folly, my unhealthy obsession. Yet I keep making it.

It is no longer the task of a madman, like it once was, but of one who is quite horribly sane.

And I'm not sure what I'll use it for, but I do know that whatever that is, it does not scare me.

Sometimes I think if I'll ever have that conversation with you.

I mean, sometimes I wonder if I'll ever even have another conversation with you.

But if I do, I hope it'll be one where you ask the question you shouldn't.

"Do you still love me?"

I replay this scenario over and over and over, going through what I could say.

Whether you'd blush, whether you'd cry. Whether it'll all be okay.

And maybe my words will be like kindling to the fire we once had, a catalyst to an experiment of old.

But it's said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over again, expecting different results.

I think I've gone past insanity, I've closed up, I've battened down the hatches and weathered the storms of my psyche.

But I'm not sure if I prefer the emptiness of these open seas, and I think feeling something, is better than feeling nothing.

I am a broken tape of our favourite film, filled with too many memories to just throw away.

Except now, I can only loop the **** part.

Sometimes I think if I'll ever have that conversation with you.

I mean, sometimes I wonder if I'll ever even have another conversation with you.

But if I do, it'll be one where you don't ask the question you should.

"Do you still love me?"