It's 9:17.
It's night
And I still go to bed crying
With you on my mind
and I still go to bed in agony
of the memories I refind
and I still go to bed writing poems filled with pain
because of a constant loss
This loss that remains is constant
and the thought of you stays and is stagnant
The suffering wallows me and the depression follows lead
It's been over a year and honestly I fear that maybe im insane to even shed a tear
and to think you dont even have a sense of the time, it's been a year
and when I speak, you barely ever even want to hear
you're wallowing in your own self-doubt and love stories
not thinking about the doubt that you leave in others
what love stories you are a part of and the perspective that they may lead, following you
I remember always rhyming love with true and love with you and quite differently than my heart may tell
true love doesn't come with you, you aren't true, you can't even find truth and meaning in the one constant that you
always fall back to