Headaches, Malfunctions, and funny little Skeletons.

The brink of 99

The last real poem I wrote was for you, the last gifted poem I wrote was for you. The last time I spit out the honesty that coated my heart was for you. I put it with the things that I saved that we did together. Because we only ever use to be together. And I'm not quite sure what happen. I don't really know what I did, to manage a  mess up so astronomical that I lost you. I lost you. And this heart break that broke through my skin and pushed past my ribs is so mind numbing. Mind numbingly impossible to get over. And if it were any other shoe collector, record playing, foul getting, overall official bad ass, it wouldn't hurt as bad. But it wouldn't be. It wouldn't be anyone else. It'd be you. It'll always be you that I can't ever talk to again. I can't ever be tucked in by, even though I'm on the brink of adulthood I would throw a good portion of my life away just to meet you all over again because you meant everything to me. We said this would never happen. We said we'd never fade apart. That we'd only grow together but I'm feeling so much like the moon and Neptune, not a damn thing in common. Cause suddenly everything that kept us together, held us together, is broken. Because I would never, in a million years, do this to you.