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This city has a bad habit of making time flies.
But now that you're not here,
days feel like weeks and weeks feel like months.
I tried to be busy.
I buried myself at work,
I begged my mind to not be idle.
I've changed the ceramics in my apartment.
I went to my mother's place for a week.
I've thrown every last bit of your cigarette butts in my ashtray.
But your memories still knocks on my door.
And this is when the feeling sinks in. I don't want to miss you like this. Come back, be here.
She hates the way I talk,
She hates the way I walk,
She's acting like she's too good for me,
But I know the truth,

She says I broke her heart,
But I just figured out what kind of person she was,
She holds a grudge like it's all she has,
Made her pride her first choice,

All I have in my hand is a deck of card,
A knave for her queen of spades,
I will give and she will take,
It'll be a circle,
I'll be in pain,
She will never know what she is,

So I'll let her believe,
I did her wrong,
Until she realise what she had damaged,
Ignorance will be her punishment.
Friends to enemies / couples to enemies both work. Self-reflection is necessary. No one person is to blame.
If loving you was a mistake,
Then I’d gladly go down in flames,
But like a phoenix,
I will rise through the ashes.

Either as the devil or the angel,
Either as a sinner or a saint,
I will hold you,
Until the end of our days.

And when it comes,
You can choose to be my salvation or my damnation,
But know that whatever the decision,
I will love you nonetheless.
It's cold,
You'd always complain,
And I would put my arms around you,
And share with you my warmth.

But you're not here,
That's why I'm walking alone,
There's so much heat under my coat,
That I would love to give to you.

I wonder,
Are you cold?
Wherever you are, my dear,
Please don't be alone.

As much as I hope that it's me.
Who lit the fire,
And warmed you up,
Please don't die alone.
Read this to yourself. Read it silently.
Don't move your lips. Don't make a sound.
Listen to yourself. Listen without hearing anything.
What a wonderfully weird thing, huh?

NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD!
SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND!
DROWN EVERYTHING OUT.
Now, hear a whisper. A tiny whisper.

Now, read this next line with your best crochety- old-man voice:
"Hello there, sonny. Does your town have a post office?"
Awesome! Who was that? Whose voice was that?
It sure wasn't yours!

How do you do that?
How?!
Must be magic.
Someone carved a face in that pumpkin,
and now it's perched on a stoop, grinning
with the same sinister grin the carver must have had
when he carved it.

And everything I recognize as expressive
(the triangular eyes, that big toothy smile)
is marked by a lack of pumpkin.
A red face of dead space.

And now I'm seeing just the opposite.
I see two spots where the eyes should be,
an open wound where the mouth once sat,
and a fire within, baking the insides.
On a Wednesday morning, clear and calm,
                     I went to Astor Place
and had a gypsy read my palm
                     or maybe just my face.

She said my heart was heavy
                     and my head was stuffed with lies.
But things like that weren't on my hand,
                     they hid behind my eyes.

The room is dull and dank and cold but at
least I have a hand to hold.
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