I always think I know it all,
Yet every day I learn so much.
I think of how I don't miss you at all,
Yet every night I yearn so much.
You were the spine to the book of my life,
The stitches closing the wound from their knife,
But now my pages are out of order, like a scrambled and hurriedly written essay,
And I'm bleeding out every second, even to this day.