I don't miss you anymore, though I loved you once, and you need to know,
even if it isn't the type of script I would ever put on for a show.
I do theater—you see, I rearrange the conversations,
and last night I was about to write our little confrontations,
about to write our full story, not merely out of memory,
but because it feels like a beautiful theater to see:
the expressions, the emotions, the love, and all the characters within.
Yet I don't want everyone to see that it still matters under my skin—
maybe just a little bit, as the memories come flooding back.
I actually intended to write a story about the giant, the beans, and Jack,
but as I looked at their faces, so young and innocent in the light,
I realized I don't love you anymore and was just ignorant to the sight.
I didn't sleep last night, remembering the clothes I once wore,
realizing now that I turned them into inspiration for the theater's lore.
As I gaze at their faces, remnants of my memories still remain,
like hitting a button that suddenly makes me twelve again.
At twelve, you don't fall in love—you just experience your soul awakening,
And I couldn't stop thinking about last night's dream, this morning.
How can I forget when I still hold its scar on my body and your face in my mind?
I must be going insane, yet inspiration is something I quickly need to find.
The show is in two weeks; I won't play, but I'll still be there,
so if you're ever looking for a place to find me, perhaps you know where.
First love must be cruel, though I don't miss you—I really don't,
unless remembering the time you called me "love" happens to count.
Old habits die hard, and so do the theater's lights and warmth;
old habits die hard, I guess, and so does the stage light's glow,
but denying that I loved you once is a wrath I'd rather never know.