Untitled (Cont.)

Every time I cry about your transience, I replace you with the thought of the growing moon as I climb towards it, tell myself "it's not too late," and rest assured that I won't ever have to care about anyone, because it's too late and with you it gets harder to realize it gets harder. Do ever think about...you promised. I want to die when you're not here, because I'm convinced that everyone else thinks I'm a dick. My ideals fog up my windshield and I crash into the houses they depict in their songs.
I want to be a part of you again, face the crowds and turn back again, rediscover why we're turning___
back away, from a town you say has lost all of its meaning, in a way, I can't see the town I only see frustration, and see a landscape, a blank, raw canvas. And yes, we're all our own co-pilots, in our cockpits made of tin, and when we think about each other we despise the states we're in. I can't tell you that it's better, because I'm, truly, not that sure, but I think that this is better because this way we are sure that we're not happy yet.