282

how strange is it to exist?
i couldn't tell you, i wouldn't know,
because i can't tell tales like you - i can only count sorrows.
it's sad that i know what happy is and cannot have it,
and it's also sad that i'd like to be happy again,
i'd like to wear flowers in my hair,
i'd like to see people laugh into each others arms
and speak into each others mouths, gentle and familiar words spoken in an unfamiliar way to me.
i've said these words too but somehow it has never been the same.

i wouldn't say this to anybody else,
and when i write it is like a secret,
because the world is closed like a clam but i am open
waiting to be read like a dusty old book.
you once told me, that is the only the best and most charming thing about me, didn't you?