Can I just sleep, even for a day, without dreaming of our one pathetic moment? Can I not breathe in fresh air without thinking how it feels good enough to live even without you? Am I just a correspondent of faith and love and hope and desire appointed to report back to hurtful reality, forever doomed with singularity? Will I just be a poet destined to deliver sweet scrumptious words of the heart's hearth desperately trying to be graced with at least a whim of warmth and tenderness? How long will I be this school kid waiting desperately in the back gates of the building for the first love who will never pass by this route? How can I act maturely, morally in the eyes of the discrete public, serving the norms and normality set out by the rules on how to deal with being left out of the loving herd when I don't even feel the weight of my own feet? How can you not hear me when I scream your name after a sad tear-jerking movie with matching echoes of sad tear-jerking quotable quotes and weird corny flashbacks of our own sad reel, or just mine? How do you expect me to survive all this? How do you expect me to breathe the next breathe? How can you not know?
Just tell me you'll love me tomorrow.
And will I be brave enough to say I'll love you for the rest of my life?
How could we not know? We just don't.
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