The only thing keeping me
is that my notebook's still full with
letters I know I won't send,
and the sound of my own heart breaking
every time you say goodbye is getting to be
something only I understand.
You were always there,
telling me to be happy,
knowing exactly what I implied.
And I was always on the other side,
starting our conversations and crying
when I knew it would only piss you off.
Everyone else saw you too, and
I'm scared to death of them because
I know any one of them is better than me.
And whenever you tell me you love me
I'd like to say it clears everything up,
but it was already too damn dark
for that to happen.
I have a hard time believing
anyone would ever tell me so truthfully,
so why should someone like me
believe someone like you?