I'd love to swerve off and blame it on the fog, but I've been talking on these roads too much lately. They'd spill all my secrets.
This city won’t let me go.
-Mr W, 2004.
It's been six years, and I still can't help but defend you. Tell them how sweet you are, even though you're not anymore. You remind me of who I used to be, and I hate how I turned out. I hate how you turned out. Your words still haunt me, and I am thankful for the memories (even though they weren't so great) but I've forgotten the smell of your aftershave a long time ago. I am thankful that you wrote a line, a story to remember all the worst moments of my life by. I wouldn't want to forget them. Or you.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment