It’s so cold.
The seasons are changing and I usually love it.
You’re changing but I hate it.
All I have is another fix of something to make me forget you.
I started something I couldn’t finish.
Your words used to make my chest flutter and now my stomach are in knots and it’s strange how one feeling, turns into another.

It’s so bitter cold, I should have worn a jacket tonight, but then again, I don’t feel without you.
I guess I gave you too much power, and now I’m numb to anyone’s touch but yours.
Even the dead of winter can’t reach its hand out to grasp my heart.

I’ll see you and we’ll both cast our eyes downward.
The spots where we used to meet will be empty and useless.
I’ll avoid looking at your face at all cost, because you’ll see the heart ache in my eyes.
…and I know you won’t care.

Create me a story, that you didn’t say what you did.
That we’d do what we always said we’d do.
And we’d go on like all I’ve read about and live happily ever after.
But that’s the difference between my stories and this life.
You are the difference between my fantasy and your reality.

I used to have writer’s block, but who knew the maliciousness in you, would bring out the writer in me?
Now I’m tired, but I can’t go to bed. If I lay down and stare at the wall, all the things you said will cram into me at once.
So I sit alone, and wait for someone, anyone, to pretend they care.
Why can’t you just pretend like they do?
Pretend to love me.
I won’t know the difference.