It's like there's a hole in me, and you're not even dead.
This is how they describe the dead, you see. But this is nowhere near as dramatic, only a blip in this radio tower.
I don't give up, and I do, all at once.
I give up trying to hold on, yet I'm clinging to you tighter than ever before, just at a far.
Everytime I turn a corner, I'm certainly you'll be there, avoiding my eyes and moving with the speed of thought only you manage so well.
You're crazy, and I don't believe in that word.
You being dramatic, and you're hurting me, and you're right, you're right, you're right and you're most certainly wrong.
I hate your excuses, your reasoning you developed by the light of self hatred and disgust.
Yet, I love you more.
I love how irrational you're being because you think it will be better for me, by some insane logic.
I love how angry you make me.
I love how much it hurts to see you so far.
Maybe we just need the space. We'll turn a page, I'll move away, and this will hurt less, right?
Right?
