You write me letters
They are all the same
You start at the top with my misspelled name
Underneath I skim through the meaningless phrases
Matching the surface in which it barely grazes
The secrets that are buried deep
Secrets, which we’re bound to keep

You sign with your signature and feel that that is enough.
But I will always call your bluff
For if I were important to you,
You wouldn’t have left my insides blue

You get tired of writing when I don’t reply
Frustrated that I wont even say goodbye
You re-dial my phone
Leaving no comfort with your same voicemail drone
Sometimes I answer
Though most of the time I don’t,
Because you still do the things that you say you won’t

Until,
Phone call patterns change,
Daily, weekly, monthly…
Nothing.
Then I start to wonder if you’re okay.
Why you’re gone and why you went away.
All I ever wanted was for you to stay

Now here I sit feeling sorry for myself,
Sorting through the letters from the box on my shelf,
I begin to notice the soft pastel colors among the written lies,
To you it should come as no surprise,
That if things were really perfect I wouldn’t be complaining,
And if the sun were always shining,
It would never be raining.

Now don’t we all know someone like this?
Or is it just me?
Those unrealistic beings who couldn’t pass the age three,
Never moving forward,
Never going back,
Just sitting down on the railroad tracks,
Spinning lies,
Saying no goodbyes,
Giving up,
Laying down,
And ignoring the sound,
Of the train.