By Caress Genelle
your idea of a heart makes me sick, anyhow. I'd like to have you right beside me, but haven't we all said the same?
How do we ever feel that way again after the pages have been ripped and the fog has covered the window pane?
Oh, I'm sick and I'm pretend, anyhow.
I'm real and afraid; I want, and I run.
but, apparently not soon enough.
And, I blame myself repeatedly for not running from the look in that eye.
the look that burns deeper than the tip of your cigarette.
Anyhow, you never answered when I asked.
You never tried when I longed for it.
but anyhow, I was honest and you still ran.
Ironic, isnt it dear?
What about the way you kissed me?
or, at least the way you said you did?
Anyhow, you made me a fool.
I tried to say the least.
I just wanted you too badly, too strongly, too passionately.
Anyhow, I'm a fool, a damn fool.
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