I stepped close to the edge

Smoked a cigarette

Close to the edge of no return

Close to the edge of having nothing left

Leaving behind all that I have known

Close to the line of

Don't step over it this time

Close to losing my way back

To the planting of the seed

To being the one in need

Sand in my hand the conviction that I lack

Closer to my finger on the trigger

Placing my mouth on the barrel of the gun

I'm not talking suicide

This is a metaphor for life

Closer to it all coming undone

You always tell me the name of your favorite book
Yet the next month you tell me of the one you've read that you like one hundred times better
You've told me your favorite color
But once your eyes have rested upon a new one,
Your favorite color alters to the one you find more appealing
You always listen to your favorite song
But by now you've played on repeat at least hundreds of different "favorite" songs of yours
This is why I'm scared when you call me your favorite
And I constantly fear that when someone better crosses your path
I will be tossed over your shoulder like a piece of trash
And forgotten for eternity