I used to play you songs when you were feeling down. But now you're not around. Now you never hear a sound.

I've filled notebooks up but I trash them every fall. You never ever call. No you never talk at all.  

And if we're honest for once, I don't think that we could call each other "friend." What a stupid way to end.

But I've got no more ***** to give.
I've got my life to live. And I can't help but to hate you. And I know I should move on. But I still write you songs. And I can't help myself but to love you.

And if I've had hope then I guess it's gone and it's not ever coming back.

You left and now you're gone and I am all alone. But now alone just feels like home. And alone is what I know.

And I remember times, when our hopes were all alive. How you set my soul on fire. How you never said good bye.

And if we're honest for once, I don't think we could know: just how things go. That was a long time ago.

And I know that there's no need to stay, I might as well just go.
But you know that I know that I just want say that I've got

I've spent the past seven years reading secrets from post cards and the last 24 trying to act like I've got a cold heart. But I'm still sleeping with the blanket I stole from my brother when I was four and was afraid he'd get mad and say he didn't like me.

And my grandfather died, he wasn't blood and we called him Tommy. His real name was George, but he loved us like family. I visited him in the hospital when they pulled the plug and I brought my guitar and sat alone on my car.

And I hadn't written anything since he passed. Not a word since October. But this is me at 2:30 am  watching old 90's tv with the lights on and writing this down and I'm thinking of where I want to be.

For the past six years I've been waiting patiently for you to call and say that you've missed me. But I've waited in vain, and now your vanity's wasted. You're a ghost of the past and your sincerity's faded.

I built a new book shelf and changed rooms and painted my new walls a shade of gray and I hung up red curtains. And it was ten years ago that we moved here to the place I would call home though, then, I wasn't so certain.

The last eleven years I've been writing to try to forget you. I've spent so much time staring blankly through windows. This is me apologizing for the past and conceding hope for the future. This is me staring out at where I am and where I want to be.

My eyelids paint a picture that I just can't recognize and I thought at once, dear, that it was you here- but now I see that it's just sorrow in disguise.

And I am bothered by the slaughter that her hands and wrists and knives and heart had cost her. She said that this time would be the last time, but she still cuts herself to ribbons in her free time.

She said, "I don't care anymore." She said, "This life for me is stale and growing cold." She said, "I'm not fine, but I can't find why I should care anymore.

I've had as much talk about fear and distraction as I can react to before I start going numb.

Between secondhand smoke and lies in the bedroom, these serenades to no one start to feel rehearsed.

But she said, "I don't care anymore." She said, "I'm sick and ******* tired of being bored." She said, "I'm not blind, but I can't find why I should care anymore.

She said, "I don't care anymore." She said, "I never wanted much but to feel loved." She said, "You were the last good thing in this world left to me. But now you're gone and I can't care anymore."

I've had as much talk about fear and distraction as I can react to before I start going numb.

Between the secondhand smoke and the lies in the bedroom, these serenades to no one start to feel rehearsed.

Like I couldn't tell that I'm ****** up. As if I didn't know I was boring. No. I'm not talking. I'm just choking on biting my tongue.

It's the things I neglect when I'm trying to stay calm:
Friends
Sleep
Picking up phone calls

Nervously eyeing the clock again. I'm running on low it seems.

The sound of your voice, crackling softly over telephone wire, is cracking from the miles between us.

I don't blame you for not picking up.

I don't blame you for not calling back.

I don't blame you for any of it.

It's easy to forget:
Five years seemed to move so quickly.
And those scars, have they faded yet?
Do you know how I hate I remember it?

I'm haunted and losing it.

I know how it seems. I'm lost and empty and tearing at seams. I stare at walls and off into nothing. I know that I'm boring.

I'm just trying not to scream. At these strange feelings, when I'm not feeling anything. I'm afraid of myself again.

I know how it seems. I'm awkwardly tugging at sleeves. I don't like to speak. I know that I'm boring.

I know how it seems. I'm pacing my room again. I know how it seems. I've got a heart made of porcelain.

I'm afraid of its brokenness. I'm afraid of myself again.

I know that I'm boring.

Take me to those places where I first learned that I could love. In school yards, and in churches, car rides, Longhorn's, and smoky music clubs. These places feel so empty now that we're telephone lines apart and I'm alone.

Take me to those places where I first learned I could hurt. Phone calls on my bed, the last of car rides on the road. The street where we last embraced before I left and headed home. These places feel so empty now that we're telephone lines apart and I'm alone.

Take me to those places that I first learned I had hope. On couches watching movies and those places I wrote poems. In Rome, where we saw zebras. And that mountain path we got lost upon. These places feel so empty now that we're telephone lines apart and I'm alone.

Take me to those places that I had happiness. All those places in time that we had shared before you left. And when you come back, we would share some more time in places I won't regret. But then those places will feel empty when we're telephone lines apart and I'm alone again.