You sold me a love that resides in a cage, confines of guilt that only grow stronger with age You expect your love and all its intensity to justify your self-righteous jealousy, as if a sufficiently suffocating love defies all practical incompatibilities
Bless me with a love that is void of steel and chains, one that let's me grow without restraints
I miss you, I really do But you obviously don't want to talk to me anymore. So what's the point? It hurts, it really does But I still hope for a "Hey how are you?" Every so often. Sometimes I miss you so much it physically hurts. But I don't blame you for not wanting to talk to me anymore. I just wish you would.
When I get into moods like this and I know it's really all my fault, I really do want to **** myself. But what's the point? You wouldn't reach out if you saw this anyway.
If you were here - I'd be warm. Cool. In between. Hungry. Full. Somewhere in between - Amongst the push and pull. Tired. Awake. One or the other - Stir. Shake. Shiver. Sweat. Remember. Forget. If you were here - Shiver. Shake. If be either sleep or Awake. But here I am - Stuck. Push, pull Back, forth