There isn’t a new girl this time. The old one’s gone now.
Turns out the color of her wings weren’t red enough for me.
I’m trying. I really am.
If it weren’t for this predicament I’ve nailed in my coffin I might be happy right now.
A blonde, or a redhead.
Is it amusing their hair isn’t the color of late night whispers?
Maybe she reads, I guess you have that in common.
Maybe she’s fragile. Yeah, there’s that too.
Maybe it’s me.
I’ve obsessed. I always do. It’s my natural state when infatuation develops.
Nobody has ever captured my breath quite like you though.
How could they? Would I even let them.
I’m talking to ghosts. I am a ghost.
And all I want to do is explode with life and love and passion.
And that was never you.
So how am I still here writing things about a girl who never loved me
not the way I loved her.
A Hopeless Romantic, Stirred 