I don't know why my hands are shaking; I can't breathe.

I'm lost as to why my eyes have salty tears that I refuse (refuse.) to cry. Why did it have to be you? Why?

Why am I so disappointed?

Baby, I never expected you to love me, and yet it holds such a bitter, sickening, horrible, utter disaster. (Did anyone notice the world that just crashed? Crashed and burned?)

Was I the only one who heard the supersonic boom?

Melancholy, bereaved, disconsolate, languishing, despondent, heavy hearted, lost. Baby, I'm sad. And I don't understand why.

(Just a boy. Just that doe eyed, reckless, beautiful boy.)

I want so bad for you to mean nothing to me. Nothing.

I want you to be that stranger's face, the drop of water on the window, the speck of dust on the ground. As insignificant as a heart with no memories.

That's all you should be. (But all hearts remember.) That's all you were meant to be, because you shouldn't matter to me. But you do.

The nothing that you mean to me is the glory of the northern lights, the sweetness of the robin's song, the power of the lion's stride. The delusion of the Mad Hatter, the pain of the writer's broken words.

The adoration of a hopeful (stupid) dreamer.


Sorry, it's kind of strung together, but I had to get it out there.