Today is six, yesterday was nine, Tomorrow will be three; on average, it's five. I used to love it, I really did, I was always interested in what you hid. Perhaps it's you who didn't know how Would you even say all of that, now You erased all that's left Of yourself, So that I can have one less thing On my shelf. That's not fair. How could you even dare To assume that I don't care? I started longing for your books. I never knew why you took them, Why you made them into tools, Into something you could use against me; To make me feel bad for not making a plea To you and your heart; For not wanting to part. I don't think I need to fill that emptiness, For now, I just miss us, being friends.