What am I suppose to do
With this notebook filled of half-done drawings
And scribblings and half-recited quotes
I've filled over one third of it
with you
And all I'm left with is a bunch of pages
Reminders of you
And who I hoped you were
The pages are etched with erased mistakes
I could never quite draw your nose
I could never trace the shape of your lips
I could never find the right words or songs to explain how I felt
I couldn't get your nose right because I was thinking of your mouth
And I couldn't trace the shape of your lips
Because I was too preoccupied with the thought
Of how they would fit, pressed against mine.
And I couldn't finish those sentences
Because no combination of the 26 letters in our alphabet
Could ever explain the feeling of the butterflies you gave me
Or the beautiful melody in my ear that was your laugh
So now I'm left with these pages
This notebook full of reminders
Of who I hoped you were
These pages are etched with erased mistakes
Of unfinished pieces
And my heart is etched with the un-erasable mistake
Of ever hoping you could love me.
Over one third of myself, entirely.
Wasted
-k.m.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
What am I suppose to do
With this notebook filled of half-done drawings
And scribblings and half-recited quotes
I've filled over one third of it
with you
And all I'm left with is a bunch of pages
Reminders of you
And who I hoped you were
The pages are etched with erased mistakes
I could never quite draw your nose
I could never trace the shape of your lips
I could never find the right words or songs to explain how I felt
I couldn't get your nose right because I was thinking of your mouth
And I couldn't trace the shape of your lips
Because I was too preoccupied with the thought
Of how they would fit, pressed against mine.
And I couldn't finish those sentences
Because no combination of the 26 letters in our alphabet
Could ever explain the feeling of the butterflies you gave me
Or the beautiful melody in my ear that was your laugh
So now I'm left with these pages
This notebook full of reminders
Of who I hoped you were
These pages are etched with erased mistakes
Of unfinished pieces
And my heart is etched with the un-erasable mistake
Of ever hoping you could love me.
Over one third of myself, entirely.
Wasted
-k.m.
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