I am a dead poet. Words barely came into my mind; they were too shallow. But for you, I could compose a masterpiece with your name in it.

I bled on the wrong person
and cut him a little too much
But losing him was bearable
it was better than staying

and if I let myself fall for the second time around, then I want the photographs in silhouettes, the holding hands while walking, the sudden I love you's and calls until 3 am and everything we did at the first time—

and when the heavens decided to finally call me, I’ll answer the phone with so much happiness and tell them how long I’ve waited for them

it was a hell of a ride
we've been thru ups and downs
and needed some break
but I think we lost it