I spent all of my time dreaming, hoping I would catch a glimpse of you. And now I'm the one who pays for all that wasted time, because you didn't come back, you weren't thinking of me like I was thinking of you. I just have a heart painted with scars, and an empty book of all the things I should have been doing while I was thinking of you. You seem to have disappeared into a foreign place, and I can't speak the language. Instead of doing what was required of me, I was here, staring at the sun, hoping that it would burn the image of you forever into my retinas. It's too late now, isn't it? You're gone, and I'm here, and you're living and I'm dreaming, you're fine and I'm irreversibly scarred. That's ok, I'll be fine. I'll wear the scars to remind me of the things I should have spent my time on instead.