Sometimes you say you love me;
Sometimes I wonder.

I try to call you up, be as positive as I can,
But it seems you’re always just too “busy” for me,
No time to give or spend.

It makes me rather sad.

But I understand— you’re busy, after all.
Maybe after a few years I’ll call you up and ask if you’re free
And maybe then you’ll still be too busy with your other friends
To have any time left for me.

Maybe I’m exaggerating?

God, I hope I’m exaggerating.
Even if the pain is still the same,
At least you love me, right?
That’s what you said, right?
Love me, “always will?”

Maybe not. . . Maybe we just get caught up in the moment too easily.
“It may just be the fact that we’re growing up.”
And yeah, you were right— that does get old.

I threaten you with my death a lot.
Does that make you angry?
You say you “never want to lose me.”
I’m sorry, it’s just. . .

Sometimes I wonder.

I feel the need to test you.
How much of everything do you really mean?
It could all be okay if you just mean it when you say it, but,
You still tell me you love me, and I still feel all empty inside. . .
Pointless, left out. . . .

I hear there’s no such thing as beautiful as blah, blah, blah blahblahblah;
I say there’s no such thing as beautiful.