Random pages of my unwritten book are lying here and there,
The words on the pages have faded,
and sentences do not make any sense, anymore...

He might still think about you each night
That reminds him of the ones you used to share.
He probably is just too scared,
To tell you he still cares.
Even in the first place,
He never once said
"I care about you".
That doesn't mean he never felt it,
And it doesn't mean he ever stopped
Loving the way you laughed,
Joked around with his friends,
And held his hand too tight.
He probably still wants to wrap his arms around you
And take you to the movie theater.
He still thinks about the way you made him feel.
That you made him feel at all.
He's still there,
He's just scared that you're not.

I threw a little funeral for us.
Gathered our things.
Photographs and poems.
Your bra and tinfoil and straws.
All tucked tightly in a little oak box
lined with all my hopes and dreams.
And I buried them in the backyard.