Your car is everywhere, you seem to be in a lot of places.
Fireworks couldn't make me not see them, see you, and it's supposed to be easy to ignore such a stupid thing like an old black car full of too much adventure.
But it's not.
It's infuriating.
I despise this. You slip from my fingers like tears, but stick to me like glue--what a stupid conundrum you are.
I'm past sadness now; I'm through weeping over you because you are a terrible friend and I've finally seen it for what it really is.
You don't care about me. You hardly ever did. But you do care about yourself and what a company I am happy to be rid of now.
So let me be rid of all the black cars and the possibilities of seeing you that linger in the air.
Leave me be.
I'm through being somebody's nobody.
I'm nobody's nobody. I am my own. I was never yours, but I could've been, what a loss for you.
Float me down the Hudson with a radio playing all the songs that make me think of you.
Blow out the candles, drown the flowers, let the rain fall while I walk alone through it.
I'm done.
I'm very, very done.
Goodbye New York.
You've taken all my love for him and I'm okay with that.
Now I'm free. Now I'm free.
-k.p.
Feb. 9th, 2017
7:49pm
