I understand the pillows in the bed,
there for comfort
from bad choices.
The staying too long or leaving too soon
that felt right because you were wronged.
...I walked away often, too,
hoping all I gave would (somehow) amount
to all the love they didn't give,
and (somehow) they would give little more than a shit
about the "good" one.
Yeah.
We breathed the same bullshit
at different times, from different asses.
Felt we were special because the world isn't,
and the world ain't us.
Both suckers for love-like feelings,
victims of love-less times,
then the illusion.
You had a friend in me.
And then a place to hide the hurt.
And then a place to hide your face.
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