You have a habit of turning around, changing your mind.
Like I do, like a spin top cherry that doesn't touch the ground.
You send me angry messages when you're lost in your own drunkeness,
wanting me to find you, to save you.
How can I do that, when I can't even save myself?
We were a mish-mash pile of anger and discontent.
Yet, madly in love.
At this age, nothing lasts because everyone's too volatile for their own making.
Unless, of course, you were raised in a happy home.
And maybe that's why we loved so much, because neither of us were.