A scary thought,
my dear,
is that you’re the only reason for living.

I promise I’ve tried finding some other reason,
hoping I could forge a healthier relationship
with life,
but I’d sooner have death than live without you.

Not even art makes me alive anymore.
All I have is you, you know,
and my friends would hate to hear
how much I long for death or for you;
life gets to choose what path I take,
and I hate it.


At this rate, I’m scared of failing,
I am trying so desperately
to pretend I know what I’m doing,
to pretend I still have a drive,
but I’m only here because you’re still here.

I love you.