Where was I?

I hate to put a smile on your face sometimes. It just hurts for me to fake everything so you can breathe in more and more joy.

I paint a smile across my problems with silly pictures and movies.
But I never stop thinking about how I'd rather die then see you say those three words to a girl you hardly know.

I wanted to trace the shapes of your face on a paper last night.
But I seemed to forgotten how your features composed themselves.

I want to see you, to hear your voice, to look in your eyes just one more time.
Or I might go mad.

All I do is laugh with God at my fucked up life.

I can't find my scissors so I can find out if this is real.
To open up my arm, to feel pain. So I can understand I'm not in a dream.
That I'll really get to see you, walk by you, breathe by you in 10 days.

I'll just have to trust this feeling of regret in my stomach that it is reality.