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My heart knows the letter's
Every period, coma and semi colon.
It's the written version of what people
Call the Last Song Syndrome.
It served as my lullaby during
Sleepless nights.
When the Sun goes up
Over the horizon it waits
For me to open my eyes.
But as much as I want to
Stay with it,
The longer I suffer
From emotional suicide.
So one night during my Taxi ride home,
I closed my almost tearful eyes and
Made my hands the body part version
Of a paper shredder.
Pieces of my useless addiction
Were left under the Taxi seat.
The timid driver unaware of
My duel with a love lost which
Unfortunately will never be found.
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*Pictures from http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/taxi.jpg and http://forums.unfiction.com/forums/viewtopic.php?mode=attach&id=7276&thumb=1
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