If I want this to continue; then,
I have to stop.
Things are not as they were.
You say you love me, but all I feel is
nothing but my petty insignificance.
I am a placebo:
something that heals, but really does not.
My presence is what you need,
but how about the things that
made everything else the way they are?
I have become a bittersweet love song
whose words are sung not for me.
My melody tuned out a long time ago,
but my truth remains, however obscure.
My song is ending,
and no one will remember my words.
My melody will remain, as I hope it would,
but none will ever sing it.
