I have trouble communicating, maybe because I was never told to when young, or maybe i truly have no-one to talk to. But i have so many ideas to share with you, my love, my walking dream, my last aspiration, my dying, and final breath.
Through love I have realized, that love and suicide constantly coincide.
For every time you talk of leaving, it makes my heart wrench and when you finally did, it died. Love is beautifully sickly sweet, like the last apple, at the top of the tree, that never falls through December, but just sit there to rot, and you know what they say about the bad apple, in the bunch.
So just like love, we could both make splendid pie's, if only someone had the heart to try.