Start your book of fiction and tell me you don't love me.
Tell me that you never did.
That you never will.
Do I think about you? No, never. I couldn't even if I tried. Because the thought is pain enough to know that your airplane is farther in the sky than I can reach or even see to wish upon. Keep her close and remember the nights that I made you ...
feel alive.
So many questions yet so little time. I'm trying to open the clock to turn it back just a moment to see your smile one more time but I know that's in the past. That will never be my turn again. Am I hurt over that fact? I'm not sure. And I think it's better that way. I'd rather never know the answers to how your future lovers will touch you or hold you and just guess in my mind than hear your laughs and see your smiles for myself. I don't want to see you happy. Is that so wrong?
Correction!
I don't want to see you happy with someone other than me.
But at the same time I do. I want what's best for you. I've moved on so why can't you? So why am I standing underneath the moon, the same moon we talked about so fondly together, begging it to bring us back to that secret place. Under the stars, in the woods, in front of a fire in my back yard, you laying in my lap, on a hill where we shared a first kiss, laughing at a picnic, close together in my bed while my cat walked all over us.
Maybe this makes no sense. Maybe I'm sending signals to the moon. Maybe I'm whispering in midst of a war. Maybe we can't make wishes on hunks of metal. Maybe that's why this isn't working. Or maybe it's because I was the one who walked away. Because, as usual, I wasn't ready. For the better? For the worse? I have no idea and I'm not going to try to figure it out because it just makes my chest tighten and my heart weak.
So let's just pretend
for one moment
that we can make wishes
out of airplanes.
Like shooting stars?
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