Insane, Isn't it?
how I'm still writing about you,
scribbling these things in my
composition notebook
in ironically red ink
that's much too bright.
I twist everything you say
into metaphors and
flower stains,
Telling you
you should have stayed or at least
never promised forever
and it really is pathetic,
I'm counting up the days and
wishing it never happened.

I stand on the edge of my lonely little 'island in the sky' and scream that I miss you. I can hear your voice when remembering you said Its only wonderful till I fall, and laugh because I replied proudly (and a little distantly) "I can fly."