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itapos;s a night like this that iapos;d take out a couple of cans and stare at a wall.
itapos;s the absence of you that makes this night so much less interesting.

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itapos;s the way that that everyone else is disconnected from me.

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everyone else has a life with a different set of characters and a different house and a different way of thinking.

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itapos;s not that iapos;m lonely, itapos;s that the temperature dropped ten degrees and itapos;s the way that they sit at the table and try not to look at me as well as anyone can ignore another.

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itapos;s the way my skin cracks open without being cut.

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itapos;s when my lungs tighten up when i breathe and i imagine what they must look like now. Itapos;s how that was never going to be me.

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itapos;s almost as if iapos;m afraid like everyone else, that in thirty years iapos;ll be the same way i am today.

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itapos;s a dust-covered keyboard and a plate with old grease from last night.

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it was the way the music sounded in the car today, itapos;s the way it reminded me of another time that made me sick to my stomach.

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itapos;s how nothing will ever be fixed, really, unless i make you unhappy. Itapos;s the way i feel like i should want to make everyone happy.

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itapos;s the page i turned to while reading the news today.

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itapos;s the picture in his basement that scares me shitless.

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itapos;s no longer running in circles, and now i wish things would repeat themselves.

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itapos;s how at this moment i realize that changing what i did wouldnapos;t make things better. I would go back to another time, sometime before all this. Some time, some where.

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itapos;s music that sounds like what iapos;m feeling.

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i donapos;t care about my future.

iapos;m sick of writing.

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