Well, we were the History club rejects,
focusing on the effects
of being us
instead of in a book.

Two college drop-outs,
calling in shout-outs
to our friends,
hoping that it affected
how we looked.

Our dads would sleep in,
and our moms were crying
until a quarter past noon --
and we knew
if we didn't start trying,
that would be us, soon.

We were the starving artists,
painting fruit we couldn't afford.
Hoping each brushstroke of an artichoke
would be fruitful to our wallet,
or at least strike a chord.

Two love-loss orphans,
dreaming of morphing
into something or someone else.
But they told us
to remove that fluff
from our head
and put it on the shelves.

We were the film club fanatics,
studying the dynamics
of how to be a pretend person.
We wanted to be
a Wes Anderson flick,
but we were never any thing
other than who we were
and that's what made us sick.

And I swear I miss the desperation:
I'm nostalgic for yesterday's conversations.

"I've always had this feeling that I'm going to die young. I don't know why, I've just never been able to picture myself being older. I just have a gut feeling, that I don't have much time to be alive"

I said these words to you and you told me to shut up and stop talking. At first I thought you were being rather harsh, I was only speaking hypothetically of course, no seriousness at all. But you genuinely sounded terrified and you told me that you wouldn't know what the **** to do if I died. You told me to never speak like that again because even thinking about me being gone forever ***** you up a little bit. But, love, what makes this any different? Now only a few months later you tell me you have to let me go. That we have to stop what we're doing and that we'll never move forward from this. That you have too many doubts and I don't deserve someone who can't tell me they'll love me no matter what. So now, it'll be just as if I'm dead to you, that's what it feels like anyway. I haven't seen your face in over a week and you don't plan on seeing me anytime soon. Even the deceased get one last goodbye as you lay flowers on their tombstone. I didn't get anything but an emotionless message claiming you're sorry. So you're telling me, that you wouldn't be able to deal with me dying. You would lay flowers on a grave containing rotting remains of a soulless body but you can't stick around to love the real thing? I feel dead because you haven't acknowledged my existence in so long. Your touch and the weight of your body was always an assurance that I was alive, regardless of how numb I felt inside. You brought my eroded and love deprived heart to life and planted flowers that filled my rib cage so sweet I had no choice but to feel utter and complete joy. And of course I had my doubts because we're young and ignorant and a little naive. But I never doubted you or the connection we shared. I never doubted the fact that I cared for you with every broken piece of my heart and I would continue to care until you no longer needed me. I just didn't expect it to be so soon and I was so sure of the sunshine you brought to my soul, I only assumed you felt the same and nothing less. And I'll never understand how the people you love will tell you sweet nothings and make false promises about the future, with no intention of keeping them. I'll never understand how you could look me in the eyes and tell me you'd see me soon, and not have any intention of looking into my eyes again.