I was in a bad place in the months of last year’s April, May and June. And like any other cliched artist, I found inspiration to write from the pain.
We were in love weren’t we? I couldn’t be wrong, but how could I be right about something that had only happened to me the one time? Maybe it really was love.Maybe love held different meanings for the both of us. Maybe for me it meant too much, and for you nothing at all. An all consuming lust of giving up everything for you, just to be with you, to catch you smiling at me at the times we were silent, to have you looking at me like I’m the most precious cut diamond when we were naked, to have you coming back to me when we were done screaming at 3am, making you feel like you were the King of everything, when the world shun you off as a nobody, for me. For you it was as banal as having a person behind you, that gave you a drive, gave you the right kind of energy as temporary as that of a sunny day in the middle of a million cold years.
Love. You subjective bastard. You ever changing concept. You fucking variable, you destroyed me.