I feel things so deeply, knitting together heart ache and movie love mixed up with journal pages filled with metaphors for the same situations.
But I never let you see underneath, why does it mean so much to me?
Maybe souls are just as terrifying to reveal, words seem just as precious to speak.
If you only knew and truly understood how lost I am maybe then you'd see things how I do.
And I always tell myself it's stupid to hurt so deeply to feel so intently but these little things they matter.
They matter when they run laps in your head even after they've left, or when they play on the radio too many times that you can't seem to forget or make sense of all of this.
They matter because it's what you remember and it felt so sincere because it seems something was there.
And now you're left wondering if any of it was real.
