a list of numbers, names and positions,
a laundry list of days, weeks, months and years gone by.
i scour old journals for your name, for proof that you existed, proof that my memory of you is real
i am stuck in this time warp where I haven't changed yet somehow everyone else in my life has,
i sit numbing myself with Southern Comfort and razor blades and folksy chick rock
while you are in bed with countless lovers, all so much more significant than I was
your name is just another name on a piece of paper anyway
and i am just another notch on your belt buckle.
it doesn't much matter what we had
Or the promises we made to each other that no matter how many times the tides ripped us apart, we'd always float back out to sea until we reached each other again.
I miss the way you looked at me, stared at me from across the room, the way you now look at her.
The way your eyes sparkled as you watched me when you thought I wasn't looking, and all the times we'd stare at each other longingly both too young or too scared to tell the other what was really on our minds
I am not scared to tell you what has long been on my mind, but now you are somebody elses lover, someone elses possession.
I no longer have the right to stare at you, or worship you the way I once did.
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