This must be said to you, girl.
I'm very much over you.
Please realize I used you, and now I'm done.

This must be said to you, different girl.
I'm really desperately in love with you.
Please realize this will most likely be true forever.

This must be said to you, other girl.
I'm in as much friend love as I can be with you.
Please realize I love you in the most heterosexual way possible.

This must be said to you, me.
I'm not ever going to be apart from you.
Please realize you can love me, and actually mean it.

Okay,
You are the most deceptive person I know.
You are this twisted tangled mess of confusion and I can't figure you out.
I know how I feel, but you're so confusing.
You do realize you could probably beat me up and really hate me a lot and I wouldn't notice it?
You are so elusive.
Doctor Who makes more sense than you do.
I can solve a Rubik's Cube faster than I will ever solve you.
Just tell me what you want.
I'm not a magician/ detective/ immortal god with mind reading abilities.
You honestly confuse me about as much as chemistry.
Okay maybe not that much.
One moment, you're all happy to talk to me, all ooh let's hang out and stuff,
the next I wait days for a reply.
What the ****?
What's more confusing though?
I put up with it.
And I like it.
I like you.

I want you.
I want to sit with you, in an apartment that's ours.
I want to buy furniture with you.

I want to eat Indian food with you,
and watch stupid sitcoms that are on tv with you.

I want to adopt a cat with you.
I want to read books while holding hands with you.

I want to cuddle with you for hours when it's raining outside.
Hell, I want to get caught in that rain with you.

I want to dance to my Frank Sinatra record collection.
I want it to be our collection.

I want to drive, really really far with you.
Like, really far.
I want to spend that much time in a confined space with you.

I want to run to Waffle House with you at three in the morning when we're high.
So, I want to get high with you.

I want to come home, to our home, and just be with you.
I want to sit down and file tax returns with you.

But, more than anything,
I want you to be happy.

So, if that means
you want nothing to do with me, then
I want you to forget me.

If you don't want to see me again,
I want to disappear.

If you want to run away from me, like I'm a problem,
I want to run in the opposite direction.

But, if one day,
you want me in return,
I'll be there.
You're all I've ever wanted,
and all I ever will want.

Why are you running?
Here, you say. You need to leave here.

What are you running from?
Things, things that you need to put behind you.

What do you mean?*
Your past, you say. You need it to go away.

I am your past.
Am I your past?
Don't run from me.
Run with me.

Dancing with you.
Is there a time more beautiful, more fragile?
Everyone else, everything else, is blurred.
Time stops, sound stops.
We're faster than light, you and I.
Even if they don't understand.
We aren't in love for them to understand.

We don't dance anymore.
We aren't in love anymore.
There isn't anything left for them to not understand.
I'm in love,
you're in denial.

Last I saw her she was out in her garden.
There's the sun up in the sky, right with mama underneath.
"Help me with my tulips, darling!"
She had such a smile.

That garden was a sight, but not even close to mama.
Her curls fell like golden raindrops,
and her eyes sparkled like diamonds.
She'd grab me up and tell me stories.

Well, I remember seeing kitty that day.
In the morning, but in the after noon,
I couldn't find kitty.
"Mama, where's kitty?"
but mama didn't answer.

She was busy, hanging something from the ceiling.
She wasn't very good at hanging things, she put the rope on herself.
The chair she was standing on must have fell or something,
so I propped it back up, waiting for her.
To come down.

Eventually kitty came back.
Mama didn't.

They don't know you like I do.
I see you, I get you.
Don't be frightened by me,
I won't hurt you.

I know you wanted to.
You like the color red,
you told me yourself,
said it's your favorite.

Don't feel bad about kitty.
She's off somewhere, we'll tell mama.
She ran out, we'll say.
The backyard is a good spot to put kitty.
Mama doesn't have to know about kitty.

He just didn't get it.
You really didn't want him touching Dolly.
We tried to ask him nicely, like doctor said to,
but in the end, we had to make him give her back.
He just wouldn't listen.
Apparently he likes red too.

Made everything up-
All of it, fake.
Real is nothing.
Isn't that queer?
Stop showing up now.
Anything there is gone.

We went to the park that day, and
you smiled. We played on the swings
and fell asleep under a tree.
・・・
Your dog died that day, and
it didn't take your dreams long after that.
Nothing seemed to matter.
・・・
Your face looked different that day.
You hadn't kissed your mother in years, but rather
you'd been kissing all the boys, and the girls.
Some of them cared about you, but
you didn't.
・・・
You locked your bedroom door that day.
None of the boys or girls came to see you.
Not even your mother tried to open the door, but
you didn't care.
・・・
You went to see your dog that day, with
two red gashes on each **** arm.

Old friend, you look so menacing
once you held strength, now only pain fills your heart.
I contemplate if your pain will take mine away.
Do I dare unleash the beast, which you harbor in your soul?
Dare I drink of your sadness?
It will keep my body young,
though it will make my spirits cease.
Old friend, lay me to rest.

You've seen it before,
it's in all the movies:
the good guy gets the girl
and they ride off into oblivion.
He just tosses some stones
up at her window
and showers her with affectionate
serenades and ****** B-rate poetry.

I grabbed some rocks,
and wrote a poem.
Your house was far
and the trip was long,
and my bike now has one flat tire.

On the first throw I missed the window all together and
hit your neighbor's mailbox.
The second try hit the window but
you weren't there to answer.
The third rock broke the window.
It was actually your sister's window.

Your mail that day consisted of
a rock saying 'sorry,'
the twelve dollars I had in my pocket,
and ****** B-rate poetry.

Hopefully your insurance covers dumb ideas derived from feelings of love.