• It's strange.
    Oh how it's strange.
    The cold, lost nights without the guidance of their stars.
    The lonely sunrise of a new mourning,
    When you're not here.

    It's strange.
    With each passing moment, I feel the solitude
    Of a moonless tide.
    Each moment that I write in this diary,
    I die for your love anew.
    Because it's strange.

    It's strange.
    When the pain gives colour to the old, dusty
    Polaroid in my hand.
    How with your virtues, and all your errors,
    That death can give birth to hope.

    It's strange.
    How I miss you, like the trees miss Autumn.
    The dead leaves paint the dead concrete with life,
    In masqueraded hopes of your return.

    It is strange.
    That I façade the times you laughed, in tears.
    The times you cried, in laughter.
    How my memory of your figure feels as insane
    As the knife through my heart.
    The notion of being together with you in life,
    Slowly drifts the floors with the blood that once coursed these veins.
    It's strange, that I can be with you only in my grave.

    Because it's strange