Oh, spectacular boy:
When summer ends so will we
the warm glow of the summer sun
will fade to the tired autumn.
Cold hands will cease to be held
and, in turn, forget to hold.
Letters lost.
Hopes broken.
Bruised hearts second place to damaged egos
the blossoms of love rot to contempt
every glance of malice a victory in itself.
Anger hiding hurt and confusion.
You loved me.
Changed to hate, changed to repression.
You act as if we never were we
and as if I am just another face in the crowd.
And I wonder.
Is it my fault?
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