Painful perfect paintings attack me in the night, sending me in to a deep spiral of if only-s. If only White birds would silently cry in the day, with folded wings that never learned to fly. Shortly in death I think of this moment in time and cry Apache tears on to the glassy sea of painful perfect memories. You had feilds of lemons and crows swimming in a colbat blue pond in your pudding brown eyes and I miss them. I miss the way you would always tell me that I was your one and only snowglobe heart and I understand that if you heard what I'm saying your heart would restart but from the moment I rushed out an " I love you" at the end of our call my poor memories become spotted and dull but I know that yours must be duller, for although you are a broken pencil with no erasor I am a camera that records but dosent save the the promise you broke, when it turned into a joke. I would give hell a name if only things didn't go the way they went, but it's over. If only I listened a bit.