there will be a journal, with old photos
torn apart by your pride and my dried-up apologies,
and there will be a memory,
hidden with each page, and smiles that's
too far out of my reach - too far to even
it will probably be a sad story.
filled with curses and empty spaces and most importantly,
incomplete endings. it will be a frustrated story,
one that'll make you punch the wall
and creates blood of your own, pouring from
your vessels onto your skin.
it will, sadly, be quite beautiful.
in a demented, crippled, train wreck way.
i'll pray for your happiness, i really will.
because for whatever its worth, you did mean something;
your mark imprinted somewhere in the depth of me,
and i just, let me admit this carefully: i can't scratch it out.
but the tenses in your muscles
and the nightmares looming your way,
i won't be concerned of that shit anymore -
it will all be on you.
(no pressure here, but - hey!)
i don't prefer alcohol,
but if its the only drink i have when you'll cry
your tears will be as ugly as
our Not The End.