My only option would be to write about you and me. Sitting on this cold, hard floor where you told me you loved me. And where I tore, when you said, "no, not anymore." So many memories beyond this foundation, seems to add up to an infinity. A ton under this hardwood floor, in between these walls and door. Lost in a sweet ballad of you and me, the way you fit me to the T. So what is love when you're in between sixteen and seventeen? Now I am just four years in a box behind a closet door. Or possibly tucked away under your bed, beneath the dreams in your head. Now this is how I pretend I'm okay in the mornings you don't call, and the days that don't go my way. But they would if you were here, you seem to be my only way, my dear. My Only Option.