you and I
we are trying
to make sense
of this old feeling

called love.

i feel inexplicable happiness when i am with you
once it is over, though, i feel utterly blue
i know, i know, it is very much true
'she feels nothing more than good friends with you'

but my foolish heart remains so
it keeps thinking that she is giving me hope,

what kind of hope shreds the man to his last piece?
what hope?

i wrote a poem for you today
it was written on the very back of your notebook.
i compared you to a beautiful spring in May
how even the most serene view you overtook

i wrote a poem for you today
i said 'i love you' in it
now i am in disarray

do with me as you deem to be fit

i won't change my words
'i love you'

oh, what terrible pain it is to behold
a love and hope you hold dearly,
to fall apart and crumble
to see that you are not the cafe she was looking for
to finally understand that you are a shirt one size below hers
that you are nothing more than a conversation machine
that you are a good friend
a friend
...

this morning I woke up in a cold sweat
I guess I dreamt of you again
the image of your brown eyes
will forever cause me pain

the image of your tender laughter
like a forever lost, loved daughter

it was really dark
the view outside passed me by
a mother crying over her son's death
a bird grieving for its lover's demise
a man feeling lonely after an ending
i didn't realize
the last one was my own reflection
i wanted to call...
who?
anyone
anyone who wants to answer
who would listen
but I'll just ramble on and on
about how you left me
and how you didn't even say a word
this view is killing me
when will I reach the ****** station?
and what will I do then?
what?
where will you be by then?
Paris?
London?


I don't know
about anything
anymore.
not even myself...