I thought I was over you.
But I still check my messages at two in the morning,
hoping your name will magically appear.
Asking me how my day went,
how I spent my afternoon.
Telling me you missed me.
I'm hoping.
I don't know why, but I still am.

I'm hoping you'll come back,
say sorry that you left me hanging.
I'd probably say it's okay,
that I didn't mind.
That we were both busy at that time,
and didn't really notice the silence slowly devouring us.
But I did and it hurt.
It hurt a lot.
But that's okay because it's you.
I could never be mad at you.

I'll always come back to you.

"Where are your hopes and dreams?"

"It's in my heart."* I replied.

"But it's broken!" they cried.

Is it wrong to have hopes
And dreams in a broken heart?

You don't keep them anywhere
Where they would fade with the time.

You don't place them somewhere
Where they could be forgotten.

They must be safe in a place
Where they would not cease to exist
Or be passed by the hands of time.

Even if the heart, itself, is not safe.

And when your heart breaks,
*That's when they become true.

It’s happening again,
Such unbearable pain,
And if my soul is crying
As my heart is breaking, then that’s fine…

I’ve let so many people down,
Lost so many beautiful opportunities
I feel so failed and forlorn,
But is that really such a tragedy?

Perhaps, rather,
It’s a positive thing,
Shouldn’t a true artist be suffering?
At least I’m feeling something…

It’s happening again,
Such unbearable pain,
And if my soul is crying
As my heart is breaking, then that’s fine…