I sit alone, hookah and my phone.
But I can’t call you,
Tell you that I miss you
Because I’m supposed to be mad at you.
It’s supposed to be over.
And you are now gone.
Love is a sadist, it is.
I feel murdered inside. Feel like I’ve lost something, with no real prize for my time.
It all makes sense, what I was running from.
Feeling right here.
Is what I’ve been trying to avoid all along.
Merry Christmas to me.