What would I bring
To my small deserted island
A pen, some paper, and a bottle
To send out messages over the sea
Then I could still talk to you
Maybe you would write back
Maybe not
But it wouldn’t matter
Hope doesn’t die
On an island
The chances of your message
Actually reaching me
Are so poor that even if you sent ten
I would not get one
And when you decided to break it off
That one definitely would get lost
And I could still die
Believing the lie
That you loved me

1 comment:

jared david said...

lots of pain here. i wish i could say i've never felt it, but i can only block out so much. the last few lines are haunting...very nice.