I could write a thousand hate poems or one painfully wretched ditty about how a...an apathetic and psychopathic person ruined my life and how I was stupid, no, absolutely moronic enough to fall for her...but it will never be over. It will never be the same. I will never be over her, I guess. I was burned in such a nonchalant fashion that I was standing there a charred, stinky mess wondering what happened. And how it was over so fast.
And the fact that she still remembers that day, how she sent me to hell (for nothing, no less) and how she wonders why I acted the way I did after that day sickens me to the core. And yet, I am still drawn to want to talk to her...to talk about why she did what she did. How I was the only person in the world (not boasting)who will ever love her the way I did. And why she's still infatuated with paper cut-out fantasy men she will never absolutely have.
But perhaps, in all my bitterness, I fail to see how she is a tragic figure...cursed forever to love archaic figures of fantasy...from Lestat to the Crow...from Japanese boys to dark and mysterious older men. To love and to give love wholeheartedly and without reserve to concepts and ideas only, and to never feel the touch of a real human person.
Her world is the dream world
Where she swims in the inky black sea of the night sky
Where she plays with Old Shut-Eye in the fields
Of purple grass and perhaps she is blessed
And perhaps she is not. She is too blinded to see
Beyond what might be
And she will sit in the purple grass
Waiting for the day the touch of an Endless
Will wake her
And perhaps it will not
Her shattered mind will keep her there
There are more important stuff
Than love and dreams than I might think
But she doesn't mind sitting there to wait
So I leave her in dreams
I finally have my own life to live.