Your postcard wasn't postmarked, it hangs right above my bed and photos of you still hide in each drawer of my desk. And each time I answer my phone, there's a call I'll never get. It makes no sense. I can't focus anymore. I'm dodging landmines in my mind. And if I fall into a trap, it's like I go right back to feeling hopeless instead of just deprived. I'm stuck waiting for good news and trying to improve. I'm living healthy, but I'm not well. And I think I've apologized enough times to expose the fact that I can't ever forgive myself. It's in the stars themselves, I can see them here from hell: years away, nothing ever stays, but it hurts. It just blooms and bursts, it just blooms and burns – nothing stays, and it hurts.