How can i live like this

You're  still the one I dream about even though you're not mine.

So I've made a load of your love and I search for someone to cram into your mold.

But I don't know?
No mold of you will fill the hole you left in my heart and life.

What do i do?

I dont know what to do with all this love now that youre gone

Remember

Remember the days when Tucker and I would sit at the couch staring out the window waiting for you? And as soon as you get home we'd rush to jump on You? How stupid we were, how stupid we were to think that you had the same love for us. How stupid we were to give you all the love we had. We are still stupid because if give anything to wait for you again

I don't enjoy

I don't enjoy this life. I get through it. I wake up and go through all the motions I'm supposed to. I do the things I have to but I enjoy nothing. I can't do this forever...I lost everything. I lost a huge chunk of myself.  I don't feel whole, I don't feel happy. I feel lost and empty and sad and alone. I miss my best friend. There's a hole in me and I don't think it will ever be filled. You do not get lucky enough to to have to soul mates. And I messed mine up..if do anything for my family to be back together. I wish this life would just end

Our world

Remember the nights we'd just lay In the hammock and share music with each other and talk about nothing and everything? In the best conversations, you don’t even remember what you talked about, only how it felt. It was like we weren’t even there, lying together in the backyard. It felt like we were in some place your body can’t visit, some place with no ceiling and no walls and no floor and no instruments. Just in our own world. I miss our world.

You killed me

I kept thinking about how I’d been scared of monsters as a kid. When I was little, I knew monsters weren’t, like, real. But I also knew I could be hurt by things that weren’t real. I knew that made-up things mattered, and could kill you.

You're not in control

I was beginning to learn that your life is a story told about you, not one that you tell. Of course, you pretend to be the author. You have to. You think you’re the painter, but you’re the canvas.