she said it's written in the stars but i don't look at the stars anymore. I just someone to die for

So. Right now, things are feeling ok.

It's a week until my twentieth birthday.

i've got ideas. i've got so many ideas. but why don't they become something? i have to make them something. a set of songs. the confessions of an ardent heart, in verse. that's me. a sensualist. brazen face and a karamazov conscience.

when i think about things i realise all of the things i disliked about Clara. she lied about the little things and she thought she was so much cooler than she really was. she could be stressy and everything that she's done has made me see how changing and dark and mean she could be.

but the things i miss.

the smell of her neck with her hair on my nose, nuzzling her scarf.

the mole on her knee, passing through her leg.

the curve of her foot.

the way she looked at me.

I don't need these things. but it doesn't stop me wanting them.

but is that just her, or anybody.