i am sick of it
sick of his face
sick of the heartache
that it causes

so tired of waiting for him
to realize what he lost
and to come find me
and hoping that he even cares
knowing he doesn't

why would he
give me the time of day?
not like he loved me anyway
though i can't say the same for me
though i wish i could

so sick of knowing
what he used to mean to me how much he mattered to me
how pathetically much i still think of him

so sick of remembering
that he was my world
his eyes my beautiful blue horizon
his essence my air
his arms my paradise

so tired of caring
unable to forget how much he meant
unable to write of anything but him
and the too short time we had
about time i find a new muse
though i cannot find one
to give me words i can use