You knocked my old school project off the shelf.
It was 1:00 AM, and I wasn't asleep.
I was laying in the dark,
Counting stars in my head.
Then I heard a crash,
And watched pieces fly across the floor.
A crudely made clay statue broken into pieces.
I turned on the light and looked up at you.
You stared back at me, eyes dilated and tail wagging.
I picked up the pieces of what you destroyed,
I did not cry.
I have always been sentimental.
Shouldn't losing something from my past affect me?
Maybe it's a sign.
A sign that I've moved on.
That I've left everything behind and finally accepted the fact that things change.
But I find that signs are rarely good,
And shards of something I once loved stab my bare feet as I sweep away the remains.
Have I lost my soul?
Have I lost my feelings?
Have I really gone numb to my past?
I've lived life pushing it all away,
Burning bridge after bridge,
Breaking statue after statue.
Old memories used to make me cry.
I nearly lost my mind finding old notes from people I haven't lost.
So why did I not care about my old art?
Is it because it meant nothing?
Does everything mean nothing to me now?
Where do I draw the line between moving on and pushing away?
What is healthy?
I finished picking up the pieces and didn't get mad at you.
After all, maybe it wasn't a sign until I made it one,
A true way to know that I'm losing my mind.
Where do I draw the line?
When is moving on wrong?