Maybe it’s the nihilist in me saying, there is no good except what we put into the world.
Maybe it’s the anarchist in me saying, fuck living by your rules.
Maybe it’s the writer in me wanting closure to a story.
Maybe it’s me, from that night, still unable to get over you.
Maybe I’ve been struck by some accursed arrow.
Maybe it’s the memory of the face you made when we first met.
Maybe it’s the lost child in me asking one more time, not to be abandoned.
Maybe it’s the optimist in me searching in the darkness for the light.
