Insomnia

I'm glad that your smile is just an image in my mind

I'm not sure it was ever meant for me

And I'm glad I'll no longer look in your eyes, for I'm afraid of what they might see.

And I'm glad that we won't talk any more, our conversations never went very well.

And you won't be the one, I'm so eager to see, when I've good news to tell.

Your hand won't be the one I hold, through the bad times and the good.

Your chance is gone to do the little things, that I've always wished you would.

Like asking how my day went, or lending me your ear. Kissing me softly, on the cheek, as you pull me near.

You don't have the chance to offer back what your actions have left out.

I see beyond the words that defined what I thought we were once all about.

So the conversations I absorbed, which always went so well

Were words to you and nothing more, but a poet could not parallel the conviction and feelings you so profoundly portrayed

And I believed, not knowing that, the script changed day by day.